


Another Place and Time

by missrizu



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Memory Loss, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-29
Updated: 2014-11-29
Packaged: 2018-02-27 11:03:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 29,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2690489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missrizu/pseuds/missrizu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kirk goes back in time to protect a dangerous weapon from falling into the wrong hands. If all goes according to plan, he'll be back within 24 hours. </p>
<p>All does not go according to plan. </p>
<p>Established Kirk/Spock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part 1 - Demons, Cold Days

#  Another Place and Time 

##  Part I - Demons 

###  Cold Days 

James has gotten used to days when everything goes according to plan. Waking up, going to work, returning home. He even likes those days. They keep him calm.

This is not one of those days.

"You will tell us where the weapon is," muscles says. Again the fist across his jaw, the snap in his neck and the roll of blood down his cheek. This time the skin splits and James whimpers as the blood flows down his face. He is certain one more punch and he will lose some teeth.

"I have no idea what you are talking about," James says, voice fuzzy both with the blood in his mouth and puffy face and how long has he been here? The sun had been up when they brought him, and everything is shadows now. Hours, probably.

There are tears on his cheeks and his mind is having trouble focusing. He figures enough blows to the head will do that do you. It feels like one of his fits, but worse, because it's protracted, never ending. Usually he has a flash of white and then the room with the door, and he needs what's on the other side of that door but the demons are there so he hides beneath the stairs, waiting for Brian to shake him awake. Since he began living with Brian he's been going to the room much less often. Things were getting better.

Until they got so much worse. Because this isn't in his head, this is real, and there is no Brian. No staircase. Nowhere to hide. Just him and these guys pulping his face.

The men have stepped back to confer. Flat face as usual is doing most of the talking. Muscles has been doing most of the hitting, and stands now flexing his fists. Must be painful, hitting a guy so many times. James looks around again, though his right eye is swollen shut so it's a bit tricky. Things look the same. The warehouse is still big, and empty, and unhelpful.

"Are you sure this is the right dude?" Ponytail is saying. Ponytail is the one that had offered James water, once, a few hours ago when the beating had last stopped. "I mean, he's crying, for god's sake. From his reputation I would have expected him to be less blubbery."

"It's gotta be the right guy," flat face says impatiently. "She told us this guy. I don't get the wrong guys."

Flat face glares at James, like somehow this is James's fault.

"I'm not," James says, because it's all he's got. He's gasping out breaths between blood and he has been beat up before but this is ridiculous. And he doesn't know how to make it stop. "I'm not the guy. I'm just a barista. I have no idea about any weapon, I've never even held a gun-"

"Shut up with that," flat face says.

"I really don't think this guy knows anything-" ponytail says, and James would have kissed him if his hands weren't handcuffed behind his back.

"We'll have to try something more serious, is all. No more kiddy stuff," flat face says.

Then he picks up the black bag from the floor. They had already shown James what was in the bag, earlier, when they were still trying to scare him in hope he would tell them something about this weapon he supposedly had. James remembers the scissors and needles and matches and gasoline, for fucks sake.

"No, please, I'll do anything, tell you anything-"

"Tell us where the weapon is. We know you slipped here with it," flat face says again.

"I'm sorry, if I knew anything I would tell you, please just don't there must be something I can do-"

Flat face just grunts and reaches into the bag, rummages around and James's stomach is churning. He had already thrown up his breakfast, and lunch, so all that's left now is that water ponytail had given him. When the man pulls out the gasoline, James retches up what little's still in his stomach.

"Wait," ponytail says. "Look, this guy, Kirk, right? Way we heard it he's real tough, right?

"Yeah," flat face says, like he's waiting to hear the punch line. He has pulled out some matches and is spinning them between his fingers. "Seems to be a bit of a wise guy as well. Gonna burn some of that outta him."

James whimpers, twists his hands in the cuffs but it just rubs against the already raw skin of his wrists. Ponytail holds up a hand.

"I'm gonna ask you to hold on just a second. This guy says he'll do anything. But I figure there's some stuff this Kirk wouldn't do, being a hero and all that. This guy seems more like a follower, more like a catcher than a pitcher, if you catch my drift."

The other guys do, and they're sniggering. Ponytail walks over, and as he's doing it he's unzipping his pants.

And maybe James should be nervous or insulted. But he's not. He's relieved, because maybe this Kirk guy would never suck a guy's cock, but James will. A year ago he would have done it for money and a bag of coke, he'll sure as hell do it now to keep from being burned alive.

He'll do this. He'll do this, and they'll know he's not this Kirk guy and they will let him go. James's vision is filled and there are fingers fisting in his hair.

"How about it, princess?" Ponytail's voice has gone low and rough. "Open up, and if I like it enough maybe I can get you out of here."

James is going to give him the best fucking blow job of his life.

But before the heavy weight hits his tongue, there's a blast of light and ponytail is on the floor. James blinks, and first there is terrible fucking disappointment because now they are surely going to burn him the fuck alive, but then there's a figure and in a series of moves that look like something right out of a movie flat face and muscles are on the floor as well, and then that same someone is behind him and pulling at the handcuffs.

"Where is the key?"

The voice, calm and careful and somehow deeply familiar washes over him like a warm wave and he's prickly with relief and fatigue and a sensation strangely similar to pride, which is ridiculous because James has never done anything to be proud of in his life, except for maybe the day he landed that barista job, the first real job he ever had.

"Flat face had it," James says. His mouth still feels full of cotton balls. He supposes that's better than it being filled with other things.

There are quick footsteps and when he opens his eyes there is a man kneeling over flat face. He's wearing a black beanie like some kind of cat-burglar out of a cartoon. The rest of the outfit fits the cat-burglar moniker as well, some full bodied black suit that is tight in all the right places. The guy's systematic search of flat face's pocket soon produces the key and he's heading back over. He walks with economical feline precision, and in the shadows of the warehouse James can make out the sharp angles of a handsome face, and truly impressive eyebrows.

"Thank you," James says.

James brings his wrists to his lap and rubs the raw skin And then he is engulfed in warm, strong arms and waves of relief wash over him. The arms are so tight they almost hurt and he is so surprised he doesn't for a moment register that the guy has also begun whispering in his ear.

"Jim, I thought you were dead."

James is not sure why he's being hugged or called Jim but he wraps his good arm around the guy's shoulder because he seems to need it.

". . . don't you ever again do something this idiotic."

"Hey," Even through the haze of pain James is affronted. The danger seems past and it wasn't his fault. He has to believe this wasn't his fault. "I didn't do anything, those guys grabbed me. I was just walking down the street."

The guy's shoulders are heaving like he has just been climbing Mount Everest, and he must have some serious muscle mass, like a gold plated gym membership, because his arms are like steel. James is certainly bleeding all over his suit, some rubbery material that gives slightly beneath his fingers, like the high-tech fabrics he's seen at some of the trade shows in the valley.

The guy pulls back slightly and James's has never really understood that saying taking your breath away but he thinks he gets it now cause he feels like he's underwater.

"What's wrong?" James says.

The guy is studying his face, eyes narrowed and inches from James's own, and James uses the time to study him as well. The cheeks, the hair, the eyebrows. Under that cat suit is a body under precise control, enough to take apart three men without breaking a sweat. James has a thing for the strong, competent types, the men in suits who spoke like they controlled the world, the men in designer jeans and trendy glasses who actually did. James leans forward slightly and it's an invitation. Their lips are almost touching.

Then the guy says, "You are . . . broken."

James blinks. "What?"

"I cannot feel you. Why?"

It's funny because they're pretty much wrapped together and James thinks they can feel each other pretty damn well. Actually, James is a big bucket of feelings, the pain from his numerous injuries, the confusing embrace, and the almost kiss mixing together into what almost feels like an attack.

Oh fuck, please don't let him have an attack now. He doesn't want this guy to see him like that.

"What are you talking about?" James says uneasily.

The guy is looking at him now like he's trying to see through into James's skull. James feels naked beneath those eyes, exposed, and he suddenly feels raw and scared, and definitely in need of going to a hospital. He'll probably need stitches.

The guy pulls back, dropping one hand to James's arm, fingers curling almost painfully into James's skin. With his free hand he pulls something out of what looks like a batman-style utility belt and lifts it towards James's cheek. James has had enough foreign objects shoved in his face today. He stops the hand before the device makes contact with his skin.

"What're you doing?" James says.

"You are in pain. I am treating your wounds. Release my wrist."

James isn't sure why, but he does. James expects a burning or a pinch or some kind of pain, but all that happens is a slight warming. When it's finished James raises a hand to his cheek and finds nothing but smooth skin. After the gadget is applied to James's other wounds, and he's beginning to feel a little less like he's been run through a juice pulper.

"Who are you, anyway?" James says. For some reason the guy flinches, and James feels bad but doesn't know why. Maybe it was the phrasing. He tries again. "I want to know your name."

This is clearly not the proper thing to say either. The guy looks at him and the cool expression is cold after the embrace, the almost kiss, the relief that had been so obvious it had seemed as though James could feel it where their skin touched. James is feeling dizzy with the whiplashing emotions. It almost feels like the emotional equivalent of the beating he was given earlier, which isn't really fair considering this guy just rescued him but really this has been a long and beyond crappy day so James is going to forgive himself for feeling a little bitchy.

The guy says, "Who are you?"

The voice is low, thick with what James feels might be anger but he's not sure cause the guy's face is unreadable. But he feels the anger, almost like it's his own.

"My name is James Wilson," James says slowly, and thinks this is the wrong answer because the man's face twitches, it definitely twitches, but he does not interrupt so James continues. "I'm a barista at Peets Coffee and I live with my . . ." boyfriend is there on his tongue, and he's called Brian that a couple of time before and has even started getting used to it, but now it feels wrong so he skips it for now ". . . friend Brian by the Ballpark. I was on my way home when those guys jumped me, they must have had me here for hours."

"No. You are wrong. Your name is James Kirk."

It's like a punch to the gut and James needs to get out of this chair right the fuck now. The guy's hand on his arm is preventing him, but when James pulls the guy drops his hand immediately and for the first time in hours James is able to stand, and considering his state he thinks he does a pretty good job of it, only wobbling slightly.

"Oh no it's not. That's what those freaks were calling me and I tell you I'm not him."

"You are him," the man is stepping forward with those feline movements, and now there is something hungry, predatory about him. _A panther, definitely a panther_.

James doesn't want more talk about this. Kirk's name has been screamed at him for the past several hours, in terrifying conditions, and he thinks he's been conditioned to break out in a cold sweat at just the mention. He doesn't want this, doesn't need this, literally thinks he cannot handle this any longer without slipping under.

"I'm telling you, I'm not. I don't know anything about any ships or weapons or whatever it is you are looking for. Please just leave me alone."

Staying upright is harder than he remembers. He places a hand on the back of the chair to steady himself. There are splashes of his blood on the wood, and he sees other splashes on the concrete. His insides are roiling and it seems unfair that the guy is standing so straight and steady in front of him. There's a bruise forming on James's stomach that is making it difficult to breath.

"You do not remember. But I can show you."

The guy is raising a hand towards James's face, fingers spread. The gesture is confident, and purposeful, and at the same time completely disconcerting. James does not want someone touching his face. He has very recent memories of fists pounding into his flesh and maybe this guy has less violent intentions but James really doesn't want to take the chance.

“Please . . . no, I can’t take any more of this . . .”

James doesn't know when it happened but his knees hit the concrete and he's slumps forward. He's so fucking tired and he's long past caring about people seeing him cry, so he lets the tears come. Black-clad knees hit the ground beside him. The hand placed between James's shoulder blades is burning hot though his thin and sweat-stained shirt.

"Please, Jim," the words are whispered and James imagines he can feel the sadness pressing against him, again like it's his very own emotion. "Let me help you."  
James doesn't pull back when the fingers touch his tear stained face. There's no point. The fingers press against his skin.

It's like spinning and falling all at once, and he knows exactly where he is going to land, because it's always the same.

_James is beneath the stairs. He knows they are coming, and is already hiding, pressed beneath the stairs and he can hear the demons prowling into the room. He peeks around the corner. Standing in the middle of it all is the this man in the black cat suit, and he's standing like he cannot see the demons. The shadows are all around him but they are drifting, like they don't see him. He is there but he is not there. Behind him is the door but it is impossible to reach, better not even to consider._

_They have trapped you here, that it is why I cannot feel you, why I could not find you, why you are broken. The black figure raises a hand, running across the scratches in the staircase. James remembered when he made each one, before, when he used to run for the door. When he used to think if he could just make it beyond he would be safe. But the demons had caught him every time, torn him to pieces and now he would never try again. He would hide, here, and maybe Brian would wake him._

_How long have you been here?_

_I have always been here, James thinks, and feels the tinge of pain._

_Not always. Come to me, some back to me and together we can fix this. That you do not know, cannot remember what we are it pains me, Jim, my . . . please come with me and we will leave this place. Please, Jim, come to me, I cannot find you, I cannot feel you . . ._

They cannot see him if he stays hidden.

_I can help you, come to me and let me help you leave this place . . ._

James wants it. He wants to stand next to the man, to stand in that halo of space around him that seems immune from the beasts.

But then there is a flash of light and they are ripped apart, a tearing that shatters his mind leaving sharp glass pieces and it's more painful even than the punches, because it's like something essential is being ripped from him and he needs more than he needs to keep breathing but he can't even remember it's name . . .

_What is your name?_

And he's desperate, flailing, but there is no answer. He is alone. 

The warehouse is alive with sounds and light and feet and voices, and he's shouting no, don't, leave us alone, let me stay here, but there's no one to listen and he's hoisted to his feel, shoulders wrapped in a blanket and bandage applied to his head, and the whole time he is half here half elsewhere.

"Where is he?" James rasps out.

Around him people are moving, taking away the men's bodies and snapping pictures and carrying on life as usual though it is all wrong. James thinks how grateful he would have been, when he was getting punches and cut and gagged, to know this scene would happen. But now he just feels empty. There is a hand rubbing circles into his lower back, and James blinks and looks around. Things are still a bit blurry.

"Where is he?"

"Here, James, I'm here.” 

James thinks for a moment of Riley – soft voice and sticky hair – though the roles had been reversed, the boy a quivering mass in James’ equally quivering arms. But James hasn't seen Riley for months. It is Brian at his side.

Brian's arm is strong across James's shoulders, his body lean and hard. Too hard. James presses with his hands but Brian won't let him go, keeps cooing in his ear and that's so not right, no one should ever be cooing at him, it wasn't right that people should be cooing at him.

"Not you, the man who came and rescued me."

James tries to get him away because when Brian is there it's too hard to hold onto that other thing, that thing he felt when the panther pressed fingers against his face.

"Don't fight me, James, come one, you've had one of your fits. They say they'll just ask you a few questions and then we can go home."

Brian is wearing one of his fancy shirts he must have come straight from work, the suit jacket would be around here somewhere, and James is glad he wasn't wearing it because he doesn't want to be bleeding all over Brian's jackets.

"Where is he?" James is almost crying.

"There's no one else here," Brian's voice is soothing and his cologne is overwhelming. "It's alright. I got you."

There are questions which James answers in a blur. He can hardly think. At one point Brian passes him one of his pills, and he takes it, the police giving him a few minutes to cool down. Eventually they let him go and Brian takes him to the hospital, and he's bandaged up and given prescriptions for the pain and when they go down to the hospital parking lot it's already early in the morning and he begins to think he might have actually hallucinated the man in black because, hey, he's seen weirder shit before.

It is in the parking lot that he sees the figure again and is heart nearly stops. His feet certainly do.

"James?" Brian says. They've stopped at the door of Brian's prius. "You alright?"

"Please, wait just a moment," James says.

James has never left Brian waiting before and after everything Brian has done for him tonight he is nervous walking across the parking lot. But he doesn't turn. Keeps moving forward. When James reaches the man in black, his skin his humming and his head tingling with relief that feels only half his own. He feels almost high with it, and it's disturbing, because god knows he had an addictive personality and to get addicted to a dangerous stranger is all he needs right now.

"Where did you go?" James says, and his voice is high and cracked. "Why did you leave me?"

"I did not want to leave you," the voice is more soothing than all the balms they rubbed into his skin at the hospital. "But I must be careful not to be seen by too many people here."

"Because of all those gadgets you have?" James guesses.

James has pretty much decided he's some kind of spy, some kind of high-tech spy, which is pretty cool, and also incredibly hot. Which is probably what leads him to say what might have, in other circumstances, passed for a terrible pickup line.

"You have a place to sleep tonight?"

The guy shakes his head slowly, like he's not sure if that's the proper gesture. James finds it entirely too endearing and what the hell's wrong with him, because, hello, high-tech spy is dangerous. James doesn't really know how spy's do these things, but he's starting to formulate a theory. The guy, like those crazy guys from earlier, clearly thought there was connection between James and this Kirk. High-tech spy was probably looking for the same weapon as flat-face and his posse, and like them had found the wrong guy. And like them would be disappointed. Eventually.

But not tonight.

Sure, his theory left some loose ends - like the finger thing, the finger thing, a part of James's mind insists on reminding him - but it's a good working theory.  
It is like an action movie, with James as the . . . damsel? No, James is the scientist. He likes that better.

"Who's this?" Brian says, walking up.

He's put on his suit jacket. It must have been in the car. He is eyeing high-tech spy with the stony look that used to disturb James back when they first started, what, fucking? That was what they did first, and James had been nervous of Brian those first couple of times. The two men are about the same height, with similar and build, and James has always thought Brian a handsome man but looking at them together he's thinking high-tech spy has that whole man-of-mystery thing going on and plus there's the eyebrows so yeah, maybe he wins.

"This is, uh - " James looks at the guy, who is looking at Brian like he might be trying to shoot icicles from his eyes. He still wants the name. He wants the name and he waits for it, like it might be the answer to some deep riddle in his brain. He needs to be given the answer. He had never been very good with riddles, his broken brain just did not work that fast. 

"My name is George."

James snorts and it's half amusement and half deep disappointment. He is positive that is not the guy’s name, but he doesn't have the confidence to challenge him and besides he does want him to get in the car. 

So he’ll go with it. For now.


	2. Part 1 - Demons, Cold Nights

# Another Place and Time 

## Part 1 - Demons

### Cold Nights

Brian is careful about his apartment. He rarely invites people over. James thinks it's some sort of industry secrets thing. Brian has items from work on display in the hallway and even a couple in the living room. Little gadgets James didn't understand.

So Brian takes some convincing. James thinks he has some pretty strong arguments. Or at least pity on his side due to his recent kidnapping. He thinks Brian can at least be convinced to humor him.

So James talks. Panther-eyes watch him as he speaks, and James knows cognitively that such concentrated attention should make him nervous but maybe the adrenalin was pushing him through. Helping him form complete sentences. Because he feels alert and his skin is tingling. Though that might just be more blooming bruises.

James’ eyes flicker to the belt around the guy’s waist. He wants to look at the tools some more. Some part of him wants to try them, to hold them in his hands. But as he makes the case for bringing the guy home with them he focuses on the more mundane. The fact that there is plenty of space. They just got that fold-out couch. Brian wouldn't even notice he was there. Though James is fairly certain James will notice he is there. In fact James really, really wants the guy to come back to the apartment -- the thought of leaving him here, in the parking lot, is impossible.

Brian listens and then focuses in on one thing. "You incapacitated all three of those men? By yourself?"

"I was not assisted by any third party.”

Brian looks again at the cat suit, the batman belt, coming to rest on what appears to be a little mini-triangle in dark grey faintly visible.

“He’s not dangerous,” James says.

Brian’s gaze stays fixed on the mini-triangle, about where the guy’s heart would be beneath the suit. James' own heart his hammering, and then plays a little victory march when Brian nods.

"You don't have any more things with you?" Brian says.

A head shake, no. James is bouncing as they walk together back to the car. He has a million things he wants to say but they aren't actually forming into sentences anymore like a coherent, noncrazy person so instead his just grinning like an idiot as they get in the car. He's not sure why he is so happy. It feels a bit like when he got his job, or when Mia says she likes one of his stories. But so much more. When "George" – James knows that is not his name -- looks for a moment at the seat belt as though uncertain what to do with it, then pulls it across his chest and clicks it into place James can barely keep back the (manly) giggles.

Brian makes awkward small talk in the car, but when all they receive are monosyllabic nonresponses Brian's questions subside. He'll talk to me! James thinks, and it's almost gleeful. He really doesn't know what the fuck is wrong with him. It's actually like he's high on something.

Luckily it is not far to the apartment. They park the car and take the elevator up -- 12th floor, right at the top -- and James' heart is hammering. They walk down the hallway, the wide windows looking out over the bay. The whole development is fairly new, a renovation of an old wharf. The first time he came her he had been impressed with the view, had been awed by the elevator and sleek lines of the hallway.

He doesn’t think high-tech spy is having similar feelings. He’s probably used to places that are all . . . high tech. Yeah. James has to figure out more about where this guy actually comes from. The guy is walking closely to him – somehow they had started walking shoulder to shoulder once they left the elevator, with Brian in front. He wants to talk but refrains. Brian will go to work in the morning, and then . . . why do you care if Brian is here? But he did care. And anyway, something told him the guy wouldn’t talk so long as Brian was around. And more than talking? James thinks there is some of that going on as well.

“I am glad we ran into you in the garage,” James said. “Where were you planning on sleeping?”

“A motel.” He said the word as though for the first time.

James has a mental image of this spy-guy in his black beanie and batman belt, sitting on a motel bed with some purple flower comforter and one of those old ceilings with water stains and flecks of peeling paint.

“Well, Brian’s place is much better than a motel.”

Brian opens the door and they step inside, James shoulder to shoulder with his high-tech spy. As expected there is no shock or awe on the chiseled lines of the guy’s face – rather, his expression stays cool as he surveys the room, as though it is about as impressive as the parking lot at the hospital. The room is all modern lines and high end art furniture -- Brian's company made serious money a couple years back. The space is spacious and open, with a long hallway to the right leading to the bedroom.

"This is where you have been staying?"

"It's Brian's place.”

Brian is standing next to their new three-thousand dollar couch and eyeing the guy warily.

"It's your place now too, James. I told you once I started storing your clothes in the closets, it became official."

James takes a moment to feel guilty about how much he lusting after the guy, because le's be serious, that's what's going on here. Brian has never asked for fidelity, but he has never needed too, seeing as James until the last twelve hours really had little interest in having sex with anyone. James represses the urges and folds himself on the white couch, looks at the stack of his comic books on the coffee table, the only clutter in the room. It’s a little cold but it suits the space.

The room is silent. When James had moved to the couch the guy had stayed standing at the front door. There is now a gap between him at the door and James and Brian in the room.

“Are you going to come in?” James says, flipping through one of the magazines. The guy does not move, remaining like a shadow near the door. A warm, dangerous shadow that is making James’ skin tingle even from this distance. He clamps down on that train of thought and shifts on the couch, looking up only when he hears the voice from the doorway.

"How long has Jim been here?"

"About six months," Brian says.

Brian has the look he wears when he is asking James to try to remember something, or whether he is sure he's ready to look for a job, or whether he is able to attend some fancy function because there will be people there and they both know how nervous James gets in large groups of people.

The guy’s jaw tenses and James knows he is angry, the same way he knows it is cold in this apartment and the couch is soft beneath his toes and that despite how beat up he looks on the cover of the most recent issue Spiderman is not going to die.

"And how long has Jim been in this city?"

"Two years," James says.

This is his standard response, though in reality his memory is . . . fuzzy, to use a charitable term. The exuberance from earlier has dimmed, and he is feeling instead sad and distressed, and -- James looks sharply up at the still figure standing in front of Brian's high-end bookshelf. It's like the feelings are coming from him. That doesn't really make any sense, but that's definitely what it feels like, and James watches the play of shadows across the cats suit and imagines he can feel the tension in the muscles beneath.

"And where were you before?" George is looking right at him now, and James is positive that is not his name, and this whole thing is wrong, somehow, deeply wrong, and James can't tell if the feeling is coming from himself for from the guy across the room.

"I don't know," He usually would have stopped there, sees Brian's surprise when he continues, but he feels he should give an explanation. "I was really messed up when Brian took me in. The doctors said I fucked up my memory. I was living on the street for a while, until Brian found me and helped me get cleaned up. I really owe him a lot."

He could be talking to one of those statue-performers who hang out at Union Square, the guy is so still. But James has the impulse to raise his hands to his ears. He never thought silence could be so loud.

"It's true James was a mess when I met him," Brian says, and he still have that careful, evaluating look. "But you wouldn't know it now. He has greatly improved."

James nods. James had been so strung out when Brian found him, doing anything -- things he really didn't like to think about -- to get his next fix. At that time everything had hurt and it was only the drugs that kept him sane. Because if he was high, he could avoid the room. That was when he was still slipping under nearly every night and they would tear him apart. It seemed anything he tried to hold onto, anything that made him feel confident or secure or respected, would be torn from him. Now the demons were still there but the drugs -- prescription, this time -- helped and he felt like a person again. Brian had done that for him.

"No," the single word, whispered, seems made of splintered glass. "It has only been five days."

James has no idea what this means, but he knows it means something. James wants to reach out, to say it's going to be alright like high-tech spy is actually a friend of his. Or a brother. Or . . . James shakes his head. James can feel the waves of pain and disbelief, like a space heater set to emit depressing emotions, and he's positive now he has some localized ESP going on and wonders if the beating somehow awakened some latent physic tendency. He's finding it difficult to resist hugging the guy, which would just be incredibly awkward. So instead he hugs his knees more tightly.

"I'm alright now," James mumbles, but this doesn't seem to help. If anything the waves of distress just intensify. Jesus what happened to all that exuberance from earlier? James feels like he's just gone down the steep side of a roller coaster.

"You can sleep here," Brian says, eventually, once the silence has stretched to truly awkward proportions. "Once you brush James aside you'll see the couch folds out, and you'll find sheets in the closet in the hallway. Or, James, perhaps you would like to help him?"

James nods and unfolds from the couch. He gets the bedding from the closet, heaping it high on his arms. Over the top he can he George looking at him, and you would have thought James was performing some kind of circus act from the surprise in the guy's face. Well, not actually in his face, his face did not do much to show the emotions -- it was again more that James knew what he was feeling, would sense the surprise, the shock, and a deep undercurrent of distress.

James leaves the bedding on the coffee table, and moves to start pulling out the bed, but is stopped by strong fingers around his wrist.

"It is not necessary for you to serve me."

James is overly conscious of the skin on skin contact, even though it is just fingers around his wrist. He thinks the guy must feel it as well, though where James' too-fair skin is certainly flushed pink, the guy looks more sick than aroused, some trick of the light making his face literally green.

"Thank you for helping me." It is at once everything and nowhere near enough. The guy does not say anything, but doesn't release his grip either, and for a too-long bit not-long-enough span of time they stand frozen. James has the ridiculous impression that if he says some magic word he will wake up and all of this will make sense, somehow. But he has no idea what that word might be.

Then Brian is calling from the hallway and James moves away.

"See you in the morning?" James says, and he means it to be friendly but the guy just looks so sad. "Hey, you alright?"

"You should sleep."

For a moment James wants to protest -- hey, you don't tell me what to do -- but he doesn't. Cause it's true. The gadget combined with the doctors had done a lot to ease his injuries, but he was still sore, and bruised, and shaken, and feels like he just road in the backseat of a very advanced emotional rollercoaster. He should sleep.

But he looks back before stepping into the hallway.

"Good night."

"Good night, Jim." The guy is standing behind the couch, his fingers digging into the white cloth in what looks like a too-tight grip, as he has been doing since he dropped James' wrist.

"It's James," James says, and immediately regrets it. "But Jim is fine. You can take a shower, if you want. There are towels in the bathroom, I can get you one--"

"That won't be necessary," and then, like reading a phrase from a book, "I am grateful for your hospitality."

Finally there's nothing more to say so James pads down the hallway. One side of the hallway is single glass window. Beyond the windows, the water of the Bay is smooth, the lights from the bridge just visible to the left. He can see the twinkle of houses on the other side of the Bay. He should get out more often, he never goes anywhere, it wouldn't be too hard to hop on Bart and visit Oakland or Berkeley this weekend.

He wonders if George could go with him. Which is ridiculous, the guy would probably leave tomorrow. It would be Brian who might go with him. He should ask Brian and stop thinking about the panther in their living room with the black beanie.

James opens to the door to the bedroom with a tad too much force, then steps more cautiously over the threshold. Brian's there, undressing, the king-sized bed and dark, high thread count sheets. He always feels like a bit of an interloper here, even though he has been sleeping that bed for months.

"You say he helped you?" Brian says. He has removed his button up shirt, revealing lean, toned muscles. There is a splash of blood on the crisp white fabric. James' blood.

"Yes," James takes the shirt and folds it, placing it in the hamper. "If he had not come, those guys would have taken me apart."

James is consciously having to stop himself from thinking of the man in the other room, and there's certainly the buzz of the sexual attraction but there is more than that as well. There is still more he needs to say. He'll talk to me. They hadn't talked about the warehouse, hadn't talked about the hug, the finger thing, hadn't talked about Kirk, that James was not Kirk so there was really no reason for there to be high-tech spies in his life. They need to talk about it.

James heads back across the room and Brian pulls him in, the fingers of one of Brian's hands digging into his waist while the other hand cups his cheek, at once intimate and strangely remote. "I am glad they didn't. I was worried about you."

"I'm just glad it's over," James says.

Brian smiles and leans in to kiss along James' neck, beneath his chin. James leans into the attention, though he's having trouble responding. Brian can't really ask anything of him tonight. He just got worked over by a bunch of thugs, plus there's a guest in the living room. James knows these are good excuses.

"You know," Brian says, pulling back but keeping his grip on James' waist. "We should think about getting you some self defense classes."

James shakes his head. "You know I don't like to fight."

Brian's head is cocked to one side, and James has a ridiculous thought that if the man in the other room is a panther, Brian is some kind of bird. But the elegant, slightly scary kind. Maybe a hawk.

"I bet you would be good at it, if you tried," Brian says.

James shakes his head. At his age -- whatever it is, he is estimating late twenties --all he could hope to learn would be the basics and without even trying he knows it would just make him angry and frustrated. Besides, even if he had known the rudiments of self defense, he still wouldn't have been able to stop those thugs from taking him. He is thinking about the panther-smooth movements George had used to take out those thugs, as easy as taking apart a box or some such overused metaphor. It's not like he could ever hope to do anything like that.

"I'm not like you, having everything come natural to me. You know it's difficult for me to remember things," James says.

Brian moves so they are pressed even closer together, and James can feel Brian rock hard beneath the smooth silk of his pajama pants. James lets out a breath, trying not to convey his lack of enthusiasm to obviously. He knows he will be expected to do something about that, injuries or no.

"You're world class at some things," Brian says, and James recognizes that tone of voice, knows what it means.

"I'm too sore for you to fuck me tonight," James says.

It is a little raw and a little abrupt but Brian just smiles. James knows he doesn't mind. Because after all they had met like this, just like this, Brian looking for a rent-boy and picking James' name off a list. Usually James feels lucky, supremely lucky he had been preferred and allowed to stay. Brian could have had anyone, someone less broken, someone he didn't need to nurse through illness or provide medicine for or shepherd back to health. He was lucky.

But tonight James doesn't feel lucky. He just feels tired.

Brian uses a thumb to run around James' lips.

"How's your throat?"

He doesn't really feel like it but it's not worth objecting. He hadn't told Brian about ponytail and it was not something he wants to bring up now. He can suck Brian's cock and then go to sleep. It is a lot better than the position he was in mere hours before.

James nods and gets to his knees.


	3. Part 1 - Demons, Cold Dawn

#  Another Place and Time 

##  Part 1 - Demons 

###  Cold Dawn 

An hour and a half later Brian is finally asleep. James slides out from under Brian's arm. The sheets are sticky, though he had swallowed Brian had insisted -- almost angrily -- that James get off as well, and it had taken a while but eventually James had been able to come over Brian's hand and also over the sheets. 

He feels dirty, and tired, and there's a fuzziness in his head he has not felt after sex since his days on the street. He pulls on his pajama bottoms and slips from the room. 

He trails his fingers along the hallway's glass wall, looking out at the twinkling lights across the Bay, then up at the sky, the stars, and feels a sadness without direction or purpose. Malaise, Debora would call it. It feels indulgent to be sad, after all he has a home and reliable food and clothing -- it would be greedy to want more. Though recently he has been wanting more of an indefinable something. 

But one thing he wants, he has the overwhelming feeling that one thing he wants, can now be found on the Italian couch in their living room. 

When he steps down into the living room the couch is still in couch-form, not yet transformed into the smooth contours of a bed. The pillows and blankets are still stacked where James had left them. And there is a dark figure sitting straight-backed on the couch. The lights from the tall windows cast strange shadows, the steady distant movement of a single ship on water the only movement. The figure is so still. 

James takes a step into the room, then another. The figure does not move until James sits on the other end of the couch. Then two panther-eyes turn to watch him, and James wishes he had pulled on a shirt. James feels open, exposed, and it is like those eyes are mapping his skin, cataloguing every nick and scar and imperfection. He draws his knees up underneath himself.

"You should be sleeping," the guy says. 

It's funny because of the two of them, "George" is the one not dressed for bed. He's still even wearing his black beanie. 

"So should you." James wants to say something cool next, or at least something that will make the other man relax -- but instead he says, "I can help you fold out the couch, if you like. I can set the blankets for you, if you want to brush your teeth or anything, there are extra brushes in the cabinet, Brian keeps a stash--" 

"That will not be necessary." 

James is silent. Everything he says seems to be wrong. He wants to say something right. 

"You're name is not George," James says at last. 

"No," And there, the slightest trace of amusement. James' heart starts racing. He likes that amusement. Wants more of it. "My name is Spock." 

"Spock," the name is strange, but it feels right on his tongue. "I like it."

"I'm glad," and there, again, the faintest ripple of amusement. 

James is literally getting hot from it, and though it had taken him so long to respond when Brian was touching him he unquestionably wants this guy -- Spock -- to touch him. His insides go molten at the very thought and he wonders for a wild moment if it's possible Spock can smell his arousal, and that's crazy but maybe that's something high-tech spies can do?

Maybe he should be reading fewer comic books.

"Say something?" James asks. His voice sounds a little pathetic but that's alright. 

Spock is looking forward. James wants to take that beanie off and see his hair -- dark, he thinks -- maybe run his fingers through it, tug a few times, or whatever Spock likes. Something is telling him Spock likes it a little rough. These stoic guys often did. James' cheeks go red as memories come, unbidden, and unwelcome in this space, of prior experiences. But this is so different, he has never wanted this badly. 

"I have rarely had difficulties facing realities," Spock says, and that voice pulls in James' full attention. He watches Spock's profile, the fascinating way the shadows define the fine contours of bone and skin. "Facts are always valuable when one is attempting to determine a course of action or discover the reason for certain events. But, I find myself now, reluctant, to question further."

"You saved my life today. You can ask me anything." 

Spock takes one breath, then another. Then turns so he is looking right in James' eyes and maybe it's a trick of the light but his eyes look all pupil, dark and deep and hungry. "What is your relationship with that man?"

"He's my . . ." savior? benefactor? Too complicated, just say it. James looks away, turning to the dust-free corner of the room, "boyfriend." 

"And that would have certain expectations of sexual contact?" 

Spock sounds so clinical about it. James thought he had long since stopped being embarrassed about these things, but there is a slight blush on his cheeks as he replies. 

"Yeah, I mean, sometimes--" he's not sure why he is trying to diminish it, and he can't stop stammering. "It's not as much, anymore," he says though it feels dirty, dishonest, with the taste of Brian's semen still on his tongue. 

Now that space-heater of emotions has definitely turned to angry. 

"Why are you angry?" 

Oh God, Spock wasn't some kind of retrograde homophobe was he? Living in San Francisco it was sometimes easy to forget those people existed, but they were still out there. But in the next second he is positive that is not what's going on, because there is still anger, burning anger, but there is also sadness and distress. 

"I am not --" Spock pauses but then continues, as though he can't bear to leave the sentence undone, "-- typically prone to anger. This situation is not what I expected. I find myself in need of time to adjust." 

"Time. Alright. Sure." 

James thinks maybe he is suppose to leave now, but he can't bring himself to relinquish his spot on the couch. Instead he reaches for one of the comic books, not sure what he is going to do with it in the dark but liking the distraction of the paper in his hands. It is easier to talk when he has the Sandman backing him up. 

James had been gradually edging closer to Spock across the cushions, their legs now nearly touching, but he stops. He came out here for multiple reasons, many non-sex related reasons, and he has been distracted and cautious and confused. But there are things he wants to talk about. That he needs to talk about. He doesn't have to wait for Spock to bring up everything, it is within his power to release the questions that have been fluttering in his mind. 

So he says, "You're looking for this Kirk too, right?"

"I am not looking for him. I have found him." 

James takes a breath, lets it out. There's a strange flapping in his gut, like he's swallowed a baby bird and eww he doesn't actually want that image with him but there it is. He has to correct this. The good here comes with the bad -- if he doesn't want to be beaten up by thugs, he also won't be of interest to sexy high-tech spies. 

It seems only logical.

"Look, I'm not the guy you think I am. Whatever you're looking for, whatever this Kirk has--" James swallows, that name itself is evoking memories now of the not-so-great variety, "I don't know anything about it. I really can't help you. If I knew anything I would tell you, but I don't." 

There. He said it. Spock might leave now, and James didn't want that to happen exactly but he has had enough good things torn from him by demon-fingers in the past two years and he expects he can survive this as well. With the suit and high-tech gear and advanced fighting skills, Spock belongs in the pages of the comics on the table, not in James' actual life. 

He thought he had been pretty clear. But Spock is not convinced. 

"You said you do not recall your life prior to two years ago," Spock says. "How can you say with certainty that I am wrong?"

Oh. Alright. James takes a breath. Digging around his memories is a dangerous past time, one liable to land him in the room with the demons. But recently he has been practicing, and it's been getting a little easier to see things, to remember. He can try. And, he wants to try. He allows himself to collect, tentatively, the little bits and pieces he has remembered, and he lays them out for Spock like precious pieces of himself. 

"Since I started living here, I have remembered some of what happened before," James says. "I remember growing up. I remember a house, and a woman. My mother, I think. When I left she was . . . disappointed. She did not want me to go. She did not think I would . . . succeed." This might not be the right word, but it's the impression he has. It's more impressions that memories, really, of the woman and he wonders if there's a way to make Spock understand. He wants Spock to understand. "I think if she saw me like this, it would mean she was right, and it would make her . . . sad," James looks around the apartment, hugging his legs a bit tighter. "I would rather stay here." 

"You do not remember what happened, between your childhood and two years ago," Spock says softly. "You cannot know what you were in between. You cannot know I am wrong."

"I can. I do know. Those men today, what they wanted, who they thought I was. It was something out of a movie. Not real life. That can't have been my life," James lowers his voice and sinks his chin into his knees. "Just think about it. I can't have gone from a hero to this. That is not how the world works. You do not know what I was. You heard about the drugs, but I only did that cause I was sick. I am still sick. I can barely hold it together sometimes."

James looks down as a hand comes to rest on his bare arm. It's warm, and heavy, and feels more real than the couch or room or apartment or anything he has felt in ages. It feels like he has been living in a washed out world of dim colors and dull sensations, and now everything is heightened through this bare bit of contact. He sighs and leans into the touch. 

"Come back with me," Spock says. "Let me help you. Let me fix you." 

James looks up from the hand on his arm to Spock's eyes. Fix him. Spock had said something like this before, that he was broken. Like some kind of pre-packaged merchandise that needs to be returned for a working model. And he is broken, but he doesn't believe even his high-tech spy can fix him. 

James is feeling blurry around the edges, his thoughts flitting about in circles. Spock here on the couch in Brian's apartment seems to blend into the long shadows of the warehouse. He sees how Spock had looked after that first embrace, how the relief had turned into a cool wave of reserve, suspicion, sadness, failure. James feels again the press of fingers to his face and feels Spock standing in his mind, invisible to the demons but unseeing as well, remote, removed, unreachable. If James could stand with him he would but he knows the demons would just tear him apart. It has happened a thousand times before. 

"Come back with you where? Fix me how?" James says, and then because he knows he can't go anywhere, that this will end soon and Spock will leave in the morning and things will be the same as they were before, his life, so much better than it was but somehow still so lacking, he says, "You can touch me more, if you like." 

Those dark eyes go to him, careful, searching. It's too bold a statement. But James actually think he will be ill unless he can close the distance between them.

"Do you want that?" and the voice is a brittle mixture of sadness and hope. 

"Yes," James breaths, and Spock's arm opens and James slides the short distance across the couch. Then James is clinging to black-clad shoulders, but that isn't close enough. He buries his face into the bare skin of Spock's neck, breathing in and out, close to crying, close to something, feeling stretched and thin and spinning. 

Spock's hand is warm and strong and solid against his back. He wants to feel that hand move against his skin. He wants to feel the body beneath the cat suit pressed against his, wants to explore its contours and crevices and creases, and somehow a crazy and probably delusional part of his mind is telling him that would be home. 

"Where were you two years ago?" James whispers against Spock's neck. James is not sure why he says it except that this feels like something he should have had a long time ago, and this sounds a little less corny that where have you been all my life. 

He says it so quietly Spock should not have been able to hear. 

But Spock does hear. 

It feels like every muscle in Spock's body goes rigid at once. Then Spock is whispering something, low and fierce and warm against James' neck, but James does not catch the words because his head is buzzing and oh god he is literally going to fly apart . . . 

And oh crap this is an attack, he's going to have an attack and his finger's dig tightly into Spock's shoulders. He pulls back so he is looking into Spock's eyes. So close. 

"Do the finger thing again," James says, and Spock looks actually scared and that's wrong, so wrong but James cannot help it and he is so sorry. "Quick, it's coming, I can feel it, come with me, please . . ."

The last thing he remembers before slipping under is the sight of Spock's face, crystallized with concern. Then fingers press into the side of his face, and when he slips under Spock is also there. 

_Again, Spock stands like a pillar, there but not there. Spock. James' mind itches to reach out to him, but he stays hidden at first. Because the demons are also there. All around. And they can't see Spock, but they could see James._

_Jim, come to me . . ._

_If he goes slowly, the demons will catch him, tear him apart._

_So James runs._

_James runs, and he is torn, slashed and beaten as he moves forward but he makes it to Spock, grabs his hand and his mind is an explosion of feelings and impressions and colors, these aren't memories, they can't be memories because it is too many and too much and too strong and too bright, but it is his and he needs to keep hold of it because it belongs here . . ._

_There are impossible things. Suns and planets and stardust. Giant trees and impossible animals, purple plants as tall as houses and great green rocks stretching out on horizons under three suns and beneath red skies . . ._

_There are familiar things. San Francisco, but not San Francisco, the bridges and water and landscape surrounded and encrusted with taller buildings, high walkways and an impossibly blue sky. There are people, faces and smiles and laughter and fear, and he knows them but their faces are unfamiliar, and it's like trying to remember every bit of one's childhood at once but being able to grasp on to only bit, the most fractured of impressions, the feeling of hands on his body, of fingers around him and inside him and holding him, these arms, Spock's arms . . ._

_But then._

_Claws dig into him, tearing him apart, and he knows the feeling because he has felt it before, and it will pull him apart until he is a dark sniveling thing on the floor in his own mind, scared and frightened until he emerges somewhere, cold and dark and dirty and terrified of returning to that stripped state on the floor . . ._

_No, no, no, no . . . he grips Spock's hand, but the world is swirling and the light is fading and it hurts so damn much . . . they are pulling everything from him, the suns and the stars and the great purple bushes, the faces and the warmth, and no no no . . ._

"James."

The world above him resolves, and he is being pulled up from an ocean and into the smooth, modern lines of Brian's apartment. Brian is above him, the needle in his hand and oh god it had been months since James had needed the needle, and what had he been doing?

It takes time for his mind to settle. But then he remembers. Spock, the fit . . . he looks around, half-thinking everything had been a dream -- the warehouse, Spock, that sensation of color and light and confidence -- then he sees Spock hunched over on the couch. 

"Are you alright, James?" Brian asks. Even the day before James would have clung to Brian, but today things are different. He stands, and it's difficult, but he takes a step, then two, and he's by Spock near the couch. He wants to reach out to touch but keeps his hands back. 

"Hey, you alright?" James says. He can hear Spock's heavy breathing, like he is trying to calm his heart. There is distress and pain now coming from him, and James wants to touch Spock's skin again but he really cannot, not with Brian watching them, and he isn't sure when Brian became an interloper in this but that is most definitely the feeling James has right now. 

"His fits can be hard to see sometimes," Brian says. He stood now behind James. "He should be alright now. I am sure he is sorry to have disturbed you."

Brian places a cool hand on James' back. 

And Spock is up and off, knocking Brian's hand back and then Brian's on the floor and Spock is standing over him looking positively feral. It all happens so fast James is still blinking while Brian dabs at his lip, bloodied. Then James is pulling Spock's arm and shouting. 

"Stop, please -- "

James is trying to hold him back but it turns out Spock is crazy strong, superhero strong really and James' efforts are effective only when he puts himself bodily between Brian and Spock's now upraised fist. 

"You can't go around hitting people, please, calm down--" And James knows, feels, that somehow this is his fault, that somehow the mess that is in his own mind had infected his high-tech spy and he just would manage to fuck this up, just like everything else. Because I am broken. Spock had called him that, earlier in the night, and it comes back full force. 

Spock's attention shifts from Brian to James, and James recoils from something in his eyes. "He can't touch you."

"What are you --"

But James doesn't have any more time to think, because Spock's fingers sink into his shoulders and he's pulled forward into a bruising kiss that feels more like an attack, definitely territorial and James is so certainly not ready for this -- and Brian's right here, right here, oh god what will he say . . . Spock is seeking out every bit of skin to skin contact he can achieve, hands pressing against bare skin as though trying the burrow down to bone. 

"What the fuck are you doing?" 

Brian is shouting, and his anger unlike Spock's is sharp and biting. He is pulling at Spock's arms, but it is not until James starts panting for breath that Spock releases him, and James is able to pull back, and he's pretty sure that's just because Spock himself is so surprised. He is breathing heavily, but James can feel him cooling down. 

They are standing in the world's most awkward triangle. James has never had the experience of being fought over before and he is not super excited by the prospect. He didn't want any trouble, not like this, and he wonders what he can say to make this all go away. But it is Spock who speaks first and his voice is almost back to its previous tones. 

"I apologize for my actions. I have calmed down sufficiently you have no need to be afraid of me. I will not stay here any longer," James' heart just about breaks, but then flips when Spock adds. "Jim, you must come with me."

It is like a beacon across a lake. He wants to get to the other side, but there is no way to cross the water and no guarantee what he will find on the other side. His lips are still tingling from the kiss, his mouth killed with the foreign -- but familiar -- taste. There is blood on his lip and his hair is eschew from where Spock dug fingers into his scalp and through it all Spock has not even managed to lose that beanie. This craziness may be Spock's life, but it is not James', and it is not good for him or the demons in his mind. 

"I can't," James says. "I live here, I can't, I'm sorry." 

"You don't have to be sorry, James," Brian says. He is eyeing a drawer James knows contains a small gun -- a precaution they have never needed, and one he really does not want to see attempted against Spock. Brian is a good shot, but he is not a high tech spy. 

"You need to leave," Brian says. "James is in no condition for this. He is too fragile --" 

"The Captain is not fragile," Spock says, and he has not quite calmed down, because the words ripple with anger. 

Brian goes still. "The Captain?"

"Please leave, Spock," James says quietly. Spock looks like he is considering bodily carrying James out of the door. "I need to sleep. I will be fine here."

"I will not leave you with --" 

"Please," and James is begging, really begging, because he needs to sleep and focus and sort his shit out before there's any more punching or kissing or claiming. "I need to sleep. I need to rest." 

Spock is obviously and painfully unhappy. But, after what had happened, he really can't stay. Brian would never allow it. After a final long, painful minute Spock stands and leaves. Having brought nothing with him, he takes nothing as he goes, except a frantic fledgling part of James' consciousness that feels like it has been kicked out of its nest and left shivering in the snow.


	4. Part 2 - Bleeding Out, Bring You Down

#  Another Place and Time

## Part 2 - Bleeding Out

###  Bring You Down

James wonders if it's normal to think so much about guys in cat suits. Probably not, but it's not like he can help himself so he's not going to worry about it too much. He's gone through some pretty serious shit in the past days. Even two days later, it feels like his seams are coming apart and the stuffing is showing through, like a build-a-bear gone terribly wrong. 

Fix you, Spock had said.

It really does feel like James is actually being pulled apart. But it is different from the destructive tearing of the demons. It doesn't leave him gasping, dark, empty -- it's more like getting glimpses of activity behind a flapping curtain. There are weird images flickering around, and he never knows when he will be taken by one, sinking into scenes of heart pounding adrenaline, or touch and the smooth pull of sheets in an entirely foreign though completely familiar room -- he thinks he could walk the hallway beyond the doors. James doesn't know if this is memory but he does know that at times these images feel more real than the smooth lines of Brian's apartment. 

It has been two days since what James is referring to in his mind as the Spock incident, though everyone else is still calling his kidnapping. As much as he has been thinking about Spock he had almost stopped thinking about being beaten for hours, which was just more evidence of his fucked up priorities. He should by rights be scared shitless, or be having some symptoms of PTSD. But he isn't feeling anything like that. He hardly even feels sore any longer. 

The first day he had spent in the apartment. It was like when he was first staying with Brian, lounging around trying to watch TV and flipping through comic books and trying to figure out what the hell he would do with his half-life. Today he had insisted on going to his appointment with Debora, and he planned to go to work after. Because they had caught the guys from the warehouse, the police did not think there were more, and James did not think he could just sit stewing in his own head for another day. 

"Do you want to talk about it?" Debora says. 

"Not really, no." James is usually better about talking, but this time it just feels like too much. He doesn't trust his ability to articulate what's going on in his head at the moment. Debora won't really care. She has seen him much worse. In the beginning when he had first started living with Brian he had hardly been able to string two sentences together some days. 

"Is it Riley?" James shakes his head. For once, that is not on his mind. "More recent experiences, then?"

"I don't want to talk about it." 

Debora nodded. She is sitting in her purple chair, pad in her lap but her pen still. She had gotten her hair cut. "Brian thinks you should talk about it."

"I thought you told me I shouldn't care so much what Brian thinks?" 

"Have you been having issues with Brian?" 

She was good. James sighs. 

"No, it's not issues. It just doesn't feel right." 

James is not used to this feeling of resentment against Brian. He has been grateful for so long the switch feels awkward. But the little things are getting to him now. That Brian treats him like a pet, appreciating and punishing, paying attention to James when it is convenient for him but ignoring him for entire stretches. James had been happy just to be allowed to stay in Brian's space. But now, it just feels, dehumanizing. 

"How does it not feel right? Is it related to your attack?"

"I don't think so," Debora waits. James has wanted to talk about it and he has talked about much more embarrassing things with Debora in the past. "Brian made me have sex with him, the night of the attack. I didn't want to do it." 

"Did you tell him?" James is silent. He hadn't told Brian not too, and that is bothering him. He should be able to tell Brian those things. He didn't have a lot of experience with this but he wanted a relationship where he could actually say things like he didn't-want-to-have-sex and not feel like he was failing his end of the deal. 

"No. I didn't say anything." Debora made a note on her pad. 

"Perhaps he was concerned that he might have lost you."

"I don't think that was it."

James looks down at the geometric carpet. Clean. Orderly. Those shapes used to sooth him, but now he felt restricted. He has been thinking about it more now. He has never actually felt, respected, by Brian. It was that moment that had made him realize. Maybe he had more agency now than before, but in that moment he had realized how much his choices were still limited, prescribed. 

"Are you feeling resentful?" 

James looks up at the word. That is exactly what he was feeling. But he is remembering something else, something that didn't bother him so much in the past but now he thinks might be relevant. Debora talks to Brian. They were friends. And he knows about patient confidentiality and all that but he's suddenly not certain it's wise to rely on that particular safeguard. 

He spends the rest of the session sidestepping Debora's questions, until she came to the last one. It was a regular on her list, but today the answer was a bit different. 

"And how is your memory?" 

James thinks of the flapping curtain, the teddy-bear seams. He had been seeing flashes, but they were too bizarre to be called memories. They were more like scenes from some science fiction serial franchise. And Spock, he was in most of them. A featured character, with a tagline and colors and some scenes in flashing color. 

"I am remembering some things. More than I was, maybe." 

"What kind of things?"

"Images, mostly. People. Places." 

"That is a good sign. And are these images, positive?" 

"Mostly." 

Debora opens a drawer and pulled out a journal, passing it to him. "I would like you to record these memories." 

James looks at the blue cover and is reminded of Spock, which is stupid. Earlier he had been reminded of Spock when someone started talking about biochemistry on Muni, and then again when he had walked by some old guys playing chess. It is ridiculous. 

"Alright." 

James thinks this is going to be homework, but it turns out Debora expects him to sit there for the last half hour of the session -- which Brian is paying for out of pocket, they aren't married so no spousal privileges for James -- and write out what he could remember. James is better with words than images, but it was impossible to write a lot of the stuff, so he sketches. 

He leaves out the weird stuff -- the dual suns, the stars, and definitely the prominently featured space ships. He leaves out Spock, which is a large part of what he has been seeing. This omission might mean he is failing therapy, but he tells himself it's okay because he draws other things. Items. Rooms. Some potted plants. A cool three dimensional chess board which looked a lot better in his head than in the little doodle, though he thinks the drawing gets the point across. 

At the end of the session he moves to put the notebook in his bag, but Debora reaches out for it. He shrugs and hands it over. He would see her in a few days anyway. 

One thing he likes about Debora's office is that it is near the coffee shop where James works. It only takes him ten minutes to get there. His shift mates Mia and Trevor greet him as he comes in. Trevor's hair has a new color addition -- purple to complement the already vibrant green and pink -- and there seems to be a new tattoo along Mia's arm. 

"Hey James, looking good," Trevor says. James smiles, tying the apron around his waist. "What'd you talk about in shrink time today?"

"You know he's not suppose to talk about it. That shit's private," Mia says. 

"She asked me to draw things today. Memories and stuff," James says. Mia looks at him, raising a pierced eyebrow. 

"She asked you to draw things? You?" 

"Yeah, me," James returns Mia's playful push, prepping the work area. The place is pretty deserted at the moment, but it will fill quickly around lunch times as the office workers poured out for afternoon coffee. 

"Well, James, now you are a fellow artiste," Mia puts unnecessary emphasis on the last syllable "Check this out." 

Mia does these drawings, in her own notebook, mostly of people and things she saw around the shop, and she's really good. James flips through the pages with her. 

Stops on the sketch of a man. 

In the beanie. 

"Who is this?" James asks, and his voice is cracking. 

"Hot, right? I mean, look at those cheekbones. And the guy was fit. He should probably lose the beanie, though, and then with the right haircut he could--"

"When did you sketch this?" James says. Mia looks at him with her whoa-chill-down look, and usually James is able to take a few breaths and calm down but he really needs to know about this. 

"That guy was here all day yesterday," Trevor says, coming up behind them. He gestures towards a table in the corner. "He was sitting there. I was hoping he was working up to asking for my number, but sadly that did not come to pass. If he comes in again though I am considering writing the number on his cup." 

"Hey, not every hot guy in this city is gay, despite the example set by you two," Mia says. "Maybe he was working up to asking me."

"Please. Full body jumpsuit? That level of facial grooming?"

Trevor shakes his head at the foibles of the females of the species and goes back to work. Meanwhile, James is unable to do anything except stare at the drawing. Mia had drawn Spock looking out the window. On the table before him, there was a coffee, a book, and what looked like some metal contraption with a large stone in the center. 

"What's this?" James says, pointing to the stone. 

"That's some cool pendant thing he had with him. The stone was blue, and a little shiny. He only had it out for a few minutes, but I thought it really completed the scene, that little extra futuristic element." Mia cocks her head, admiring her work. 

Even though Mia's medium of choice -- pencil -- does not allow for coloring, the pendant looks familiar. James imagines he can see the blue color, a brilliant blue like the sky. She has shaded the contours of the device enough James thinks he can see the seams and buttons. He doesn't think the thing is a pendant in a jewelry sense. Like everything else Spock is carrying, it must have meaning, a purpose, and James wants that purpose to be related to him. But it's not. It's probably related to Kirk. 

When the lunch rush comes James scans the crowd for a sign of a black beanie. He tells himself he is not disappointed when the crowd reduces to a trickle and there is no sign of his high-tech spy. Not his, but . . . yeah. No sign. 

"One caramel mocha for -- " 

The words die on James' lips, because standing in front of him is a figure in a hoodie with some seriously creepy skin condition. There's a mask of tubs and knobs over its mouth but he can definitely see the scales around the eyes, brown and crusted with little tints of purple around the edges. 

"Hello, Kirk," the thing says -- a woman's voice? 

And that's just enough warning for James to duck down before something shoots above his head and the shop erupts in screams and shouts and falling cups and broken glass. James slides across the floor hurriedly, to get out from the counter and maybe make it to the side door, and that's where he sees him. 

Spock. 

And his heart might have stopped for a moment. 

"Jim," Spock holds out a hand. The shop is loud and there is screaming and chaos James knows that if he can just make it to that hand he will be safe. 

James takes a breath, then darts across the short distance and there is the sound of shouting and shattering glass and stab of pain in his right arm. Then he is at Spock, grabs that too-warm hand and is immediately pulled tightly against Spock's body, the arm against his back like the bar of a roller coaster -- and not those loose bars that always made James feel like he was going to slide out in some kind of tragic oversight, but the rock solid, secure bars that actually press you down on the seat. Spock's other arm is extended and he is shooting some kind of laser weapon, and James thinks this is what took out ponytail back at the warehouse. James has a momentary glimpse of Mia looking at him wide-eyed before she slips out the back, herding a pair of terrified customers. Then something's falling from the ceiling -- or the ceiling is falling -- and Spock is moving him like he hardly weighs more than a small child. 

"It would be best to leave. I believe they will follow us."

"Yes, yes, let's go," James shouts, and then he and Spock are running down the street. People turn to watch them but James doesn't care -- the more people, the better, because those crazies aren't going to try anything in broad daylight, are they? 

James doesn't consider himself ridiculously out of shape, but he has been skimping on the gym recently and Spock is fit, so James is breathing deeply when Spock pulls them into an alley and takes something from his belt. 

"Hold onto me, tightly," Spock says. 

It is no hardship for James to wrap his arms around Spock's waist, pressing his head into the crook of Spock's shoulder. The man did request tightly. James has just enough time to feel himself sinking against Spock, his body responding with little excited bursts of adrenaline to the contact, and then the alley dissolves around them and James thinks maybe he's dying and he has just a moment to think well, this is it then, at least I got to touch him again . . . 

They materialize. From the position of the water, James realizes they are across town, near the ocean. Spock picks up something from the ground, clips it to his belt, leads them to a little motel and hurries them into a room, which Spock checks thoroughly -- spy style -- before settling on the bed. 

"What was that?" James says, and he means the destruction at the coffee shop -- his beloved place of employment -- the fight, the dissolving and reappearing across town. All of it. 

He looks at Spock expectantly. 

"You are injured --" Spock says, and sure James can feel the sting in his arm but he doesn't even look down at it. It's not important right now. 

"What was that?" 

Spock swallows. James thinks he might actually be out of breath as well. James has thought about Spock plenty over the past 48 hours -- he is glad the guy can't read his mind because some of the images have been rather graphic -- but Spock seems different now. More hesitant. He looks at James as though looking at a particularly troublesome sukoku. 

"Those responsible for the attack are a group of Telerans. I believe there are currently five on Earth, whose arrival corresponded with my own. I do not know with certainty their purpose for pursuing you, but you were transporting an item for the Telerans when you disappeared and I believe that has to do with their current pursuit. I believe they were also responsible for you being held at the warehouse."

"You mean Kirk was transporting an item for them," James says, and he is tired, tired of this whole crazy mess. But that's not all. He is also happy to see Spock. And . . . excited? His mind is reeling from the events of the past, what -- he glances at the clock, 2:13 -- half hour? Damn, it feels like so much more time has passed. 

He sits beside Spock on the bed, their legs almost, but not quite, touching. 

"I told you, I'm not him," James says. But there is more of a question in his voice than he intended. 

Spock cocks his head, and James' eyes flicker to the muscles in his neck and there is a completely inappropriate reaction in the pit of his stomach. James notes a few physical manifestations of fatigue -- slightly deeper breathing, a few scuffed places on his suit, a smudge on his cheek. James wants to reach out and wipe the smudge away, but that would be weird. Instead he balls his fists on his lap. 

"I have thought of what to do about your lack of memory," Spock takes something from his belt and places it on the floral bedspread, his long fingers seeming to caress the material before drawing his hand back. "This might aid you."

The item is small and high tech, as expected. It's made of some kind of shiny silver metal and looks not unlike a complicated and slightly gussied-up USB drive. 

"Is there anything you don't have in your belt, Batman?" James says weakly. 

"My name is not Batman." 

"Yeah. I don't think even Batman ever had that dissolve into thin air thing, though he certainly could have used it once or twice." 

He can actually see Spock disregarding as unnecessary the parts of this sentence that don't make sense to him. 

"It was necessary to get us away quickly, as the Telerans were numerous and armed in a manner that suggested attempting to fight them would be illogical."

"I'm not arguing. I just didn't know that was an option, dissolving into thin air like that." 

Spock is not forthcoming with an explanation of why he has all this advanced gear. That healing contraption was one thing, but that transportation device? That was some seriously advanced tech. Brian would love to examine something like that. His company was always looking for the next must-need thing and even James with his limited business skills could predict instantaneous transportation would be big.

"So what is this you are going to show me? Bet it can't top that transporter thing." 

"It is different from the transporter." 

James is impressed with himself for apparently using the appropriate vocabulary. 

Spock looks at the item on the bedspread. His face would seem calm to someone looking only in passing. James, watching with all the focused concentration he had previously reserved for the most intricate of artworks, sees the softening around his mouth, the slight crinkle in his impressive brows. Spock's clearly skilled fingers reach out, do something, and an image springs up. 

It is a man, in three dimensions. A hologram. 

It is James. But it is not James. The similarities are obvious, but it is the differences that stand out. 

The man in the hologram is smiling, though there is something sharp in his eyes that James recognizes from some of the men in suits that come into the coffee shop -- the ones in the really expensive suits -- people used to making the tough decisions and the freedoms and burdens that go along with such positions. James knows he does not look like that. Plus, the guy -- Kirk, James is willing to bet serious money -- has perfect hair, and is wearing a black shirt that hugs his arms and shoulders in all the right places, and is more fit that James can ever remember being in his life. He really should start going to the gym. 

"Spock," the hologram says, and it is James' voice and not his voice, deeper and more confident. It does not pause and does not break. "I am making you this because despite what you might say, you will appreciate it. I wanted to tell you that I understand why you have to go to New Vulcan. And I do hope you come back, obviously. I only said those things because I will miss you. You obviously already know all this, but it is important that I tell you. I have relied too much on you just reading my thoughts. I am going to complete this delivery for the Telerans and lock in this treaty agreement, since they have insisted I handle this personally, and then we will pick you up. Luckily it will be a short mission. I don't think I could survive longer than five days without touching you. Kirk out." 

The last words seem to echo in the room, and James realizes he has stopped breathing. 

The message over, Spock reaches forward to switch off the device. There is a silence that stretches. James is focusing on the last line -- well, the second to last line -- five days. Spock had said something about five days, back at the apartment. It had not made sense but in the whirl of things that were making nonsense of James' life it had been lost. But, James thinks, it might be pretty important.


	5. Part 2 - Bleeding Out, Count My Sins

# Another Place and Time

## Part 2 - Bleeding Out

### Count My Sins

James thinks about the hologram, then thinks about the fact he is thinking about a hologram, and wonders when this became his life. That he is thinking about a hologram and cannot help but make comparisons. 

Kirk had been confident and direct, the kind of man James admired not the kind of man he was. And sure Kirk had been apologizing for something, but even that was more adult than anything James had ever experienced in his own relationships From what he had seen, and what he had heard of Kirk, his relationship with Spock was a partnership of equals. James is sure Spock would not have shown that recording to anyone other than . . . the man in the recording. I don't think I could survive longer than five days without touching you. 

Spock is breathing deeply, and James thinks for a moment that seeing Kirk -- the real Kirk, he isn't counting himself -- had taken a toll on Spock. 

But it is not just that. James had been so caught up in their escape, in being here with Spock, in seeing Kirk -- himself, maybe -- that it takes him a moment to realize Spock is wincing, and favoring one arm. The arm that had been wrapped around James during the firefight at the coffee shop is now hanging poorly, the black cloth of the jumpsuit ripped and -- 

James' hand shoots out, coming to rest on Spock's shoulder, where it looks like some kind shot landed just on the back of his shoulder blade. He had not seen it before, because Spock was facing him, but James can feel the swell of blood beneath his fingers, feel the ragged lines of torn fabric and broken flesh. 

James pulls his hand back and he's ready to say something, trying to decide what tone would be appropriate but before he says anything his eyes go wide. 

"It's green." The blood on his palm is unmistakably, glaringly green, like some strange syrupy prop from a B Hollywood movie. James looks at it with a mixture of horror and fascination. "What is wrong with you?"

"I was shot from a range of approximately 18.37 meters."

"Approximately 18.37?" James would have laughed if he weren't so worried. "But, what is this? It's green."

"Green is the color of my blood."

"Why? Wait . . . This is something Kirk would know." 

"Yes, you would know, were you not in your current state." James thinks he can hear the pain in the voice now, an underlying tension that seems to crackle and break through the air. 

"I can start guessing but this will go faster if you just tell me," James says. Spock winces, and it's the smallest ripple alone his cheek but James' heart starts hammering like he's the one who has the serious flesh wound. "Unless you're hurting too much?" 

"The pain is not debilitating. I had hoped you would remember, but I see now I will need to inform you of certain facts. My blood is green because I am Vulcan," at James' blank expression Spock elaborates, "I am not from Earth. My people's biology, though similar to humans in many respects, differs in 53.4 percent of our composition. The color of our blood is one such difference." 

"You sound like a professor." 

"I was a professor." 

There is green blood on James' fingers but somehow this is what really sinks in. A professor. Like, not just hot and athletic but crazy smart. James had toyed with the idea at one point of attempting to enroll in one of the local colleges, perhaps even transfer to Berkeley if he could find something he was passionate enough about, but that plan was still in the embryonic stages. 

"But you're . . . not human? They have professors where you come from, on --"

"Vulcan." 

"Vulcan. Right."

That stomach fluttering thing is back again. Not just a high-tech spy, but an alien. And a professor. What would they talk about? Though right now, they didn't need to talk. The wound might not be debilitating, but it needed attention. They needed to get Spock to a hospital. But don't be stupid James, he can't go to a hospital. He's an alien. You're going to get him taken for some crazy government experiments or something. 

"I was born on Vulcan in the year 2230," James blinks because wait . . . what? "I changed my place of habitation to Earth in 2248, when I became a cadet at Starfleet Academy." 

"Wait, back up a moment." James is pretty sure the human mind, even relatively intact minds, were not made to absorb this level of information at once. "Did you just say you were born in the year 2230?"

"Yes." 

"Then we are talking about," James pauses, tastes the words a few times before speaking out loud. "time travel?" 

"Yes." 

James had been prepared for government conspiracies -- the coolest scenario he could think of was maybe he was a high tech spy himself, and this was all a Bourne Identity kind of thing, but with less Matt Damon and more aliens -- but James thinks time travel is a little much. 

Luckily for James' mental-processing capacities, there is an immediate problem to solve, and it's in the form of the blood -- green blood -- rapidly rolling out of Spock's shoulder. 

"Can I use that gadget thingy on your shoulder? Or is it too difficult?" James asks. 

"I can instruct you. But I suggest only a brief use. The regenerator is only operating at 15.27 percent and we need to treat your injuries as well."

"This?" James raises his arm. It was glass cuts -- lots of blood, but shallow. "I am fine. This is no problem. How about we do you first, and then if there's juice left in your . . . regenerator, you can run it over my arm as well. Deal?"

Spock's lips twitch, and James has that feeling, like he has said something correct. 

"Deal."

James takes the regenerator and arranges himself on the bed behind Spock. The wound looks pretty gross -- it has gone deep, James can see muscle, and he's actually pretty impressed Spock was able to pull off a relatively normal conversation for as long as he had. Not debilitating. Spock is such a badass. James' stomach does a flutter flip and he wonders how inappropriate it is to be healing a guy's rather serious gunshot wound while simultaneously thinking about pressing said guy back onto the horrid floral bedspread. 

Very inappropriate, James decides. But he's doing it anyway. 

Spock shifts beneath his fingers, and James imagines Spock can hear what he is thinking. I have relied too much on you just reading my thoughts. Kirk had said that. Had that been literal? Was that even a thing aliens could do? James tries to remember, can't, but the impressions and emotions he's been feeling around Spock certainly feel heightened and enhanced and oh God, was Spock getting all these inappropriate sexy times sensations from James right now? James tries to make his thoughts less overtly sexual. Only partially succeeds. 

Spock gives soft instructions on how to set the device. His voice is soothing, an anchor, a professor. The device feels odd and clumsy in James' fingers, but the use is simple, and Spock is a good instructor. James runs it over Spock's skin, seeing the worse of the gashes pull together. James feels like a wizard. 

"We will have need of McCoy to prevent a scar," Spock says. 

"Naw, scars are sexy," James is joking, mostly, though he notes Spock tenses slightly. James is in need of a diversion or he might actually do something crazy like pull down that zipper he's discovered on the back of the cat suit. "Who's McCoy?" 

"He is our ship's doctor. And, as you have often told me, he is also your best friend."

Spock means Kirk's best friend, but James has decided to stop protesting that point for the moment. There are way too many people calling him Kirk for this to be entirely coincidence, and then there was the recording, and the odd flashes of something that alright may be memory. Really bizarre memory, but still . . . 

He'll go with it. 

"You're not my best friend?" James asks instead. A particularly large gash knits together, edges of ragged skin finding each other and linking like sea otters holding hands. "What are we then?" 

"What do you think we are?"

James realizes they are flirting and also that he really, really likes it. And the tension he feels beneath his fingers -- fuck it is like there was some kind of aphrodisiac rubbed into Spock's skin and transferred by touch -- leaves him little doubt what Spock and Kirk were, if a little fuzzier on where that leaves him. 

"Back at the apartment, you called me Captain," James says. 

"I did. I should not have. My mind was not in proper order at the time." 

"So I am not the Captain," James is not sure why this leaves him so disappointed. He brushes away flakes of dried green blood. They flutter to the bedspread. 

"You are. But I would rather not have been overheard." 

James presses his palm into Spock's shoulder, telling himself he's testing the tension in the newly healed skin. Not just seeking further contact. Not just seeking to pull himself closer to Spock, to increase that connection where skin met skin. Brian. Brian had been the one to overhear. Spock had attacked Brian when Brian touched him. James swallows, allowing his fingers to move over Spock's shoulder blade. _The Captain is not fragile._

"If I am Captain, what are you?"

"I am your first officer."

"Really? So you take orders from me?"

"Typically. Though occasionally you like the roles reversed." 

James' stomach jolts at the double meaning. James gets the impression Spock is not an emotional guy, alien, whatever, and these little half-moments of connection are spinning intricate webs around him, holding in his disconnected pieces, pulling stuffing back into seams and securing eyes in sockets. He wants to burrow under Spock's skin and it's messy and dangerous and fire-sharp in the fading sunlight. 

Spock turns, stopping James' hand with a grip to his wrist. For a moment they are looking right into each other's eyes and James can see the spark of desire there -- it is deeper than sex or physical attraction. Spock takes the tool from James' fingers, and there is no way this finger touch should be so erotic but it totally is and James just about jizzes in his pants. 

"Give me your arm. I will heal you now."

James, a bit dazed from what he is pretty sure was an almost-kiss, rearranges himself so he is in front of Spock. They are facing each other and James is sending all the signals he can that kissing would be fine, welcome, but Spock is looking determinately at James' arm. 

"You are not just my first officer," James says. Spock's fingers press confidently, possessively, into his arm. "I'm going to go out on what a take to be a fairly sturdy limb here and guess we are sleeping together."

"Yes."

"And other things too?"

"Yes," Spock says to the arm, and his breath mixes with drying blood. 

"So was it love at first sight?" James asks, and he doesn't mean to sound so much like a Lifetime movie, but he is curious. It's like the interest he might have had in some of Trevor's adventures but also unlike them because this might be something that belongs to him. 

Spock's lip twitches."No. Our first meetings had little romantic potential." 

"So we didn't get along but you fell in love with me anyway?"

"Falling in love is a human expression." 

"That's right, you're not human, I mean you're an, alien? I'm sorry I hope that is not offensive," James is not positive the filter between his brain and his mouth is going to survive much longer, not with Spock's fingers on his skin and careful attention on his arm. 

"I am not offended. I am Vulcan." 

"Right. So, what do you call it then? What you and Kir -- what we are?"

Spock is silent for a long moment, long enough for the gadget to die. James would have said run out of batteries, if it wasn't so clear this was technology rather beyond the battery-powered. His arm is feeling better, though it has not been the instant healing that happened previously, it hurts much less.

James thinks Spock might not intend to answer his question. But then Spock looks up at him. 

"We are t'hy'la," he says, and James is first excited, then confused, because, what? But luckily Spock keeps talking. "It was not obvious to me at first. The manner of our first meeting was such that I missed the compatibility of our minds. When I was shown our future affiliation, I came to see our bonding as inevitable. You took longer than I, but eventually arrived at the same conclusion."

"Bonding? Inevitable?" 

Spock keeps explaining, his voice low and smooth, and it is like he is explaining the alphabet to someone who had previously been able to read Shakespeare. James supposes Kirk was an expert at Shakespeare. Cause he was just such an amazing guy. Because, even though their first encounters had "little romantic potential," Kirk had ended up in the kind of relationship that was making James' stomach do little somersaults just hearing about it. 

"What, so it's like you and Kirk," James pauses, crinkles his eyes and imagines he can feel Spock's eyes crawling over his face. "You and, me, are married?"

"The concept is not dissimilar to marriage." 

"But you're so awesome." Spock's lip twitches and James is determined that one day he will get it all the way to a smile. 

"You are rather "awesome" yourself." 

A little bit of the wind lowers from James' metaphorical sails. James feels locked in a snow globe, out of place on a beach in the summer. Some little kid in expensive shoes is certain to pick up the globe and smash it into the pavement, glass shards and water fanning out onto the concrete. Borrowed time, a finite ending advancing like time is distance measures in some bizarre fourth dimension and Spock might know about all this physics stiff, hell Kirk might know but James feels even thinking about it is taking him seriously out of his depth. 

"But I'm not him. I mean, I'll admit it seems like maybe I was him, but I'm not now. He's some awesome hero starship Captain who can broker intergalactic treaties and fight bad guys, I'm just --" James doesn't want to say what he is, just, so he ends up actually saying what he was most proud of. "I'm just a barista from Peets." 

"You will remember." 

"What if I don't?"

There are still so many things Spock doesn't know, about what James has been doing and what he has done. Sure Spock knows about Brian and has an inkling about drugs but there are the other things, all the other things of which James is not proud but definitely happened and Kirk would never have done. Even if he did remember and he was Kirk, would the memory of those other things still be there? 

Kirk would probably hate him for doing those things. Kirk seemed shining and brave and smart and strong, and now would be have to live with these memories. James remembered what Spock had said about the bond he shared with Kirk. Would Spock have to live with these memories?

"I have to tell you something," James says to a particularly florid purple blossom on the bedspread. "I have to tell you, or I will feel like I am lying to you."

The first thing James remembers clearly is being in a hospital, a pain in his shoulder and he is pretty sure the doctors said something like he had been shot though he might have just made that up afterwards, manufactured from the clouded haze of Law and Order and CSI repeats. Nurse Gretchen had release him with food to a home but he was too violent and difficult. He could hardly focus for half an hour without being pulled apart, and it was when some junkie on the street took pity on him.

This is where James falters. Spock watches with a cool detachment that does not feel like judgment, but there is evaluation. It's an intense focus on every word that leaves James feeling processed, in the way he imagines a data stream might feel running through bits and bytes in a computer. It is at once freeing and terrifying -- pulls closer than he has any right to be to an alien professor from the future. 

James takes a breath because he is here, the hard part. He has reached this point before, with Deborah. But now, he is not turning back.

James talks about the Forest Room. If James had known about such places before, he hadn't remembered, but he knew about them now. Mr. Harlim had taken him off the streets, cleaned him up, and put him on display. Performed. Watched. Bought. Sold. Spock is still, a darkly processing shadow against the fading sunlight, a splash of black against the windows. James does not give too much detail, but it is enough. Spock is a smart guy and James supposes such places exist even in the twenty-third century. James' voice stays relatively even until he reaches Riley. Then the words break, there's a pause filled only with deep breathing. The other things, they were bad, but it is not until now he is really ashamed. 

"They said we could leave at any time, but it wasn't true. Mr. Harlim whipped one guy to bloody strips. He would turn guys over to Mr. X. Most of the clients they were, alright. But some had different tastes, and Mr. X was the worst. Riley was popular, and Mr. X wanted him. But Riley fell in love with this girl, Vanessa. She came and cleaned our rooms. He had set up a ticket for both of them back to his people in Bakersfield. But I told on him. I went to Mr. Harlim, and I told him about the plans. Mr. Harlim was furious. They took Riley's ticket, drugged him and turned him over to Mr. X. He didn't come back the same, no one did."

The silence of the room seems an inadequate response to James' revelation. Through James' speech Spock had turned into an emotional radiator of sadness but he had not interrupted, except somewhere towards the middle their hands had come together, and their fingers are now linked over the floral bedspread. 

"So even if I was, him, your -- talia," James says. 

"T'hy'la," Spock corrects, and his voice is low. 

"T'hy'la," James licks his lips. "I don't think I am, anymore, I don't think I can be . . ." James trails off, looks down.

He knows there is no point in comparing himself to other people but he has a terrible and impossible new benchmark now, because he knows Kirk would never be this pathetic. Kirk would never need to have this conversation, would never need to tell his hot alien boyfriend -- no, husband -- that he had fucked and been fucked a hundred other guys, done things to himself, to other people, that make him feel small and dark and shivery and sad. 

"You are him. I have listened to what you have done. But it does not change the fact you are James Kirk," there's something about the way Spock speaks that makes James want to believe. No, makes him actually believe, and that is both dangerous and wonderful. "Whatever you have done, whatever has been done to you here, it does not change the bond we have."

It almost makes James feel better. Forgiven, maybe? But there is a tininess now in Spock's voice that was not there before, and there is a warm press of anger about them. Spock may be trying to repress his reaction, may be mostly succeeding, but James can feel it. 

James cannot help himself. "Kirk would not have done those things to Riley. He would have helped. Found another way."

"Perhaps," Spock says, and James does not know why this makes him shrink, like stuffing is being pulled from his shoulder and left in fluffy clouds along the floor.

"You said I was broken," James says and he does not hide the accusation is in his voice. 

"I meant only that your mind is kept from me by those creatures. I do not know what they are or how they have blocked our physic link, but they are responsible for the pain you are feeling." 

"Can you fix me?"

James does not really think it is possible to cure his crippling darkness. He had never expected to do anything except keep it under control. But, if he is Kirk -- Kirk didn't have these demons. That man in the hologram had never gone to the dark room, or lived in fear of having his mind torn apart by demon fingers. So if he is Kirk, it is possible he can escape these demons. He should be able to. 

"In all my studies," Spock says, and James suspects these to be considerable, "I never encountered anything resembling your current condition. I have but bare theories with no way of testing them. In your mind, I see nothing but darkness. I do not see the creatures except through the effect they have on you. I would not, I cannot, see them tear you apart again." 

James had not thought what it would look like from another person's perspective. And a person like Spock, convinced James was essentially his space husband -- and hey, maybe James was -- it must have been doubly painful.

"But you think, you have theories, of what might help?" James says. 

"There are certain times when our link is stronger," Spock says, and his fingers tighten against James' on the bedspread. "I believe it might be possible for me to gain greater access to your mind if--"

"Yes," James says. "Yes. Please."

"You do not know what I was going to ask."

"You were going to ask to fu -- make love to me," James says, and cringes, because that mental check -- which term does the client prefer -- does not belong here, not with Spock. But it is there, that past more real to him than this future adventurescape of which he had so far only caught glimpses. "I am telling you yes." 

They have been talking. James' mind is full of everything they have talking about, but he has been aware the whole time of Spock's body, where their fingers are linked, the fact they are sitting on a bed, in a hotel, and no one knows they are here. James thinks this whole being Kirk thing might be possible, and a hot alien has just offered to try to cure him of his serious mental issues by fucking him. He is not going to refuse this, even if there is a part of him, a very small part, protesting about Brian. Brian never asked for fidelity. Plus, James is starting to feel pretty uncomfortable about Brian in general. 

"I do not wish --" Spock's eyes are wide and dark, and there's a questioning around him. "From what you have just told me, it would be logical for you to seek to minimize sexual contact."

It's almost sweet. "I am telling you yes." 

Spock's eyes are sharp, assessing. James thinks he has never before been so carefully catalogued. He remembers Spock's eyes on him back at the apartment, when James had wondered into the living room shirtless. The way his skin had been scanned, the scars and rips analyzed. He had been pulled to the living room that night by some force, the same force that is pulling him forward now. 

James leans forward, an offering, letting Spock move to close that distance between them. Which, after three deep breaths of sustained eye contact, Spock does.

It is nothing like the kiss last night. This is gentle, restrained, and James wants to sigh or cry but locks it in and instead shifts forward, focusing his full attention on the skin beneath his fingers. He finds the zipper and slides it down and he's whispering against Spock's neck. The hands on his back are firm and forceful and James bends into them. 

They are careful of each other's wounds, of the frailties in their skin. James' lips ghost across the scars on Spock's shoulder, feeling fresh, new, and behind his eyelids green blood melts with cotton stuffing and James curls his lips into a smile. 

Spock's body, beneath the cat suit, is all lean, powerful muscle. James spends time tracing those curves, is gratified when Spock arches beneath his fingers. Spock is responsive, more responsive than James would have predicted, but then he supposes Spock has practice -- with Kirk -- so Kirk would get the credit for dissolving any stiffness that might have bled into the bedroom. 

"I like your ears," James says, once, when he can still form semi-coherent sentences, and Spock lets out a shuttering breath into his neck, and James imagines Spock is smiling. 

James' skin is humming, his whole body is vibrating, and Spock is holding him, all around him in a hazy cloud of sweat and sensation. James doesn't think he is reading Spock's mind, not really, but the places their skin touches tingles with more than sex and it's like a thin vibration at the back of his skull, a warm glow at once enveloping and illusive. He sees images, expansive desert and the beautiful lines of buildings, and a glistening interiors and the pull of smooth dark sheets that resonate like echoes of James' own flash memories.

They are pressed together, lips to skin and fingers sliding on sweat, and it's odd for a moment that he cannot feel Spock's heartbeat -- like making love to a dead man -- James shivers -- but then his hand slides down Spock's side in what James wants to believe is sense-memory and he finds it, heart beating rapid fire against what would presumably be called Spock's lips and James laughs, a rippling sound that doesn't sound like his voice. 

Time pulls by around them, rich and heavy-scented with cum and sweat. It is deep dark now, the cars outside casting sporadic beams of light across the room. The sounds and sensation of sex splash against the night's dark canvas, and James imagines purples and blues and greens exploding in the stillness of the room. Everything is sensitive and raw and new, in a way sex hasn't been at any point James can remember. New, bright beneath red suns and flickering lights -- lights James controls, everything he controls with just a command, a word, a thought picked up by Spock and relayed through the crew and maybe these are Kirk's memories. James gasps and clings tighter against Spock's shoulders. This is the third time Spock has moved inside him, and James feels he is sinking even deeper. 

Perhaps Spock is healing him, demons seeping from James' skin and disappearing into the night, out the window to be swallowed by the ocean. Perhaps this is what people felt like all the time. Perhaps this is normal. 

Spock raises his head to look into James' eyes, and brings his fingers up to James' face in a gesture that unfurls like one of the flowers on the bedspread, should they be granted elegance and movement. 

"Now?" James is almost disappointed that more needs to be done, that this alone isn't enough. James shifts and feels the puff of breath against his face as Spock gasps --the quietest sound James has heard from a lover -- and Spock does not move from his position above James' body. 

"This will connect our minds. I will find your memories," Spock says, and James nods, though Spock hesitates. "I will not let them hurt you."

"It's fine," James says, and he curls his fingers around Spock's wrist, tightly, feeling the skin pinch between his thumb and forefinger. 

Spock presses the tips of his fingers against James' temple in a gesture that James suspects would feel erotic even if they were not twisted together in a tangle of sweaty sheets and limbs. For a second James is looking into Spock's sex-dark eyes and then he is mixed and swirled, spun like tie-dye and he is sinking under. 

_They are in the room. And they are together._

_Spock is holding him, everywhere around him, and there is power and control and that thin undercurrent of anger. The room hums with the golden glow and Spock pushes what James can only imagine is considerable physic energy towards protecting him._

_The demons stalk around them, deep shadows in the room, and James can feel their attention and cleaves tighter to Spock, steady, sun-bright presence wrapping around them._

_The door, Spock, take me there --_

_How?_

_Spock couldn't see. James would guide him, guide them both, but the movement was slow, awkward, and Spock's mind vibrating against his. He was taking the attacks, the darkness, shielding them both and James did not know how long he could last._

_But they are closer to the door than he had ever been. He knows the house now -- it was his mother's house. And the door, it was a door she had never opened, a room he was not allowed to enter. But he had opened it once and seen -- what?_

_A starship._

_He remembers. A starship, a uniform, images and pictures and belongings that belonged on Spock's belt not in some farmhouse in Iowa and James knows, knows as he reaches for the knob in his mind, beneath the warm dessert heat of Spock's protection, that it is true, he is Kirk . . ._

_His fingers are on the knob, but it is like trying to turn stone, and the knob is like fire against his fingers._

_Get away from there . . . that is not something for you. You will stay here, small, frozen, protected, and James wants to laugh but it comes out a sob and the shadows are growing, stretching towards him and he is hammering on the door but it won't budge, cursing and screaming and they are coming for him and soon those claws will dig into him and he will be torn apart . . ._

James gasps awake and Spock had collapsed, his body pressed against James. The room is just dark now, colors gone, the stillness oppressive. A car outside honks and it's like the world is pressing in on them and James wants it all to keep the fuck out because -- 

"Spock? Spock!" 

Spock's body is limp, and there are tears prickling the corners of James' eyes because oh my good what if you killed him, what if what is in your mind is so fucked up it killed him? 

But then Spock's shoulders move, and he takes a deep and labored breath. "Jim?"

Yes, James wants to say, but stops himself. He had seen things, but it's still like a movie not like his own memories -- he could be Jim, thinks he might be, but he doesn't feel it and to answer to that name now would be a lie. 

"You do not remember," Spock says.

"I was close." 

James can tell this is wrong, because Spock lets out a shuttering breath, and there is a wave of fatigue and something distressingly like despair that sweeps over James and for a moment he is almost breathless with it. When Spock speaks he does it too the ceiling, having shifted, the sides of their bodies still touching because, James suspects, Spock like himself is loathed to give up all contact. 

"I could not hold them back any longer. It was, logical to revive us both rather than see you torn apart."

"I don't think more time would have done it. The door was locked," James looks at his hands, half expecting to see his knuckles bruises from hitting that unyielding surface, but his skin is smooth. ""My mother didn't want me to go. My father died, didn't he? In space?"

"He did," Spock says. "He is considered a hero." 

"A hero," James considers the word. But he died. Left us alone. "I told you I remembered a house, my mother. That is all much clearer to now. I remember, a farm, like I knew, but other things. High tech things. And that door, the room where my mother kept all my father's things. Everything after that is still a mess, but does that at least sound right?"

"Jim has never spoken of his time as a child," Spock says, and it is not until later that James reflects what made him uneasy about this phrasing. He didn't call me Jim . . . 

When they awake the shadows are already long, the legs of the generic table by the window casting a shadow over their legs. The air is heavy with sweat and sex. They are laying, limbs tangled together, and James is angled slightly to one side because he can't put too much pressure on his arm right now. Spock is looking not at him, but at the ceiling. He seems back to his old composure, and James feels at once relieved and a little lost. 

"I am sorry I don't remember more," he says.

"There is no need to apologize," but there is a slight tinny timber to his voice and James' heart rate increases. 

"Maybe I just need more time."

Spock is silent and James hates that it did not work. But he does think it did, something. He might not have remembered, fully, but the window he has with Spock's emotions is even more open now and they are flickering, and he could feel the ripples of worry, uncertainty, and fatigue coming at him. 

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing is wrong," Spock says to the ceiling again. 

Spock is thinking about something. James' eyes narrow. He used to get general impressions of feelings, but now he is getting things with more nuance, and there is definitely something wrong. 

"Tell me."

"It is not necessary to burden you." 

James jerks back, slightly. I am not going to tell you something because it might be difficult for you to hear. James wonders if Spock pulls that kind of line on Kirk, and how Kirk responds. He imagines Kirk calling Spock out on his bullshit and is proud and then confused. 

James curls himself against Spock's body, fitting into the contours and pulling them together as tightly as they could go. Spock makes a little sound, the softest of exhalations. 

"What? Tell me," and then James knows, without Spock having to say anything. "Oh god I know what it is. It's -- I was different than him, wasn't I?" 

Spock's answer is silence, but in that silence is affirmation. 

James pulls back and all the cold and depression comes rushing back. Whatever else he, he is good at sex. He knows what to do, how to tease, how to apply just the right amount of pressure -- and he had brought all his skills to bear, had thought Spock deserved his closest attentions. 

But, of course, Kirk would not make love like a rent-boy. Captain Kirk would make love like some forceful alpha-male, less deferential and more assertive, less giving and more taking, and James remembers something he had thought once before, Spock likes it a little rough. 

He is so fucking stupid.

"It is not a problem," Spock says, though that tininess is still in his voice. 

"I want to go back," James says, and his voice is quiet. "I want to go back to the future. With you. Take me back with you, and this McAvoy will fix me. I will remember and I can be him again. I can be him for you."

Spock is looking at the ceiling again, like he is trying to discern the answer to some complex equation from the fading green paint. 

"What's wrong?"

"I will take you back. But," Spock pulls out a device. It is what was in Mia's drawing, but the stone is dull, and there is a definite twist to the metal that does not look conducive to sound time travel transportation. "We will need to repair this. It was damaged in the Teleran attack."

James looks at the pieces of the device in horror. "Wait, so you're stranded here?"

"I thought at first that might be the case. But, you were in possession of a similar device when you arrived in this time period. Were we to be able to locate it, I believe I would be able to complete the necessary repairs. Do you have any ideas where it might currently be?"

James looks at the metal on the bed. "I know where it is."


	6. Part 2 - Bleeding Out, Spread My Wings

# Another Place and Time

## Part 2 - Bleeding Out

### Spread My Wings

After having sex James cannot keep himself from thinking about Spock's body. It's weird. Back in the jumpsuit -- after showers, obviously -- Spock looks much the same as before. He even replaces the beanie. But James sees him differently now, and it is not just knowing the body beneath the black synthetic fabric -- from the future -- but also the strengthening of the connection between them. It is a strange sort of silent communication. It is not the bond that Spock spoke of, but it's a dual awareness that buzzes along James' skin. 

James finds excuses to brush their hands together, and thinks Spock might be looking for similar opportunities. He might have done it wrong, but he had done it, and though he does not remember everything, exactly, the flashes certainly are becoming more clear. His stuffing is falling out, but someone is collecting it and assembling it into a new casing. No more teddy bear. 

They go back through the transporter. Spock puts the device back on his belt. From here it is a half hour walk to Brian's building, part of a new development along the Embarcadero -- the city had given him some kind of tax break to stay in San Francisco rather than move down the peninsula. They could take muni down Market, but tight enclosed spaces with lots of people and aliens hunting them? No thank you. So they walk. The lights from the bay bridge are sparkling, the pattern like shadow-fish swimming back and forth across the four large towers. 

Brian's offices are smooth and clean, like an even more upscale version of an Apple store. The company name -- Cryteltech -- is emblazoned everywhere. Spock glances at it once, brows lowering, but doesn't say anything. Spock stays close to James and as much as James has been seeking moments of contact -- he has lost count of the numbers of hand brushes, and there was one time where their fingers linked and they walked half a block before pulling apart -- Spock seems to be an equal participant in their touch-seeking enterprise. 

The programmers and engineers who are still are the office hardly look up as they pass. Cryteltech has the open floor plan of many of these tech companies, but like many there is a sort of bubble that forms around each of the desks. They are plugged in with headphones and diet coke. It is not unusual for them to see James in the building and for those that do glance up, the tall figure in black probably seems just another possible new hire. 

The door to Brian's office is at the southern end of the room. James remembers where to find the key card. Brian might have thought he was too drugged out at the time, but he remembers visiting this room with Brian close to when they first met. 

The door clicks open. Brian's office is like the apartment -- smooth lines and minimal decorations. Spock scans the room but before he can speak James is behind the desk and punching numbers into a key pad. They are a date -- March 22, 2013. 032213. He had seen it written on a paper once. 

The wall opens onto a staircase. Spock looks at him and James fluffs for a moment in his clear approval. That must be something Kirk would have done. There is pain in the thought, but also pride. James' relationship with the throbbing reality that is Captain Kirk (Jim) has grown even more complicated since he slept with Spock. He is trying not to think about it. Too much. 

They walk down the steps, thin enough they are forced to walk single file. James is nervous, but Spock walks without any trepidation and James feels some of that confidence bleeding into him. Spock is after all an alien space traveler from the future. God knows James has seen firsthand Spock can handle himself in a fight. They will be fine. They just have to find the time travel device, Spock will fix it up, and they will go back. 

To the future. 

James stumbles slightly and Spock steadies him with a hand on his arm and James immediately calms. It is not useful to think about that too much. It might be a crazy leap to take, into the future with no guarantee his memories will return, but he trusts Spock. Somehow that is enough. More than enough. 

At the bottom of the stairs, hallways stretch in both directions. The door they need is right at the bottom. James recognizes the golden sticker in the corner of the window. It is unlocked, and James pushes it open to reveal a small, white-walled space. There are a dozen items in the room, placed on shelves along one wall, and within a glass case on the other, and a table in the center. Doors on the side walls lead to other rooms. 

It only takes Spock a moment scanning the shelves to find what they came for. "This is it." 

Spock places his phaser on the table, and begins collecting pieces from the display methodically. James scans the rest of the shelves. There are more items here, gadgets like Spock has. He walks by the displays, touching each one. James stops in front of the tall, glass enclosed display. For once he doesn't realize Spock is behind him until he hears the voice.

"That is yours." 

They are looking at a torn, dirty, and bloodied golden shirt. The main damage is to the upper right shoulder, and James places a hand on his own shoulder. He knows beneath his jacket and T-shirt there is a scar there, and now also a phantom pain. James does not remember the shirt. But like everything in this room, like Spock when they first met, it seems to be whispering to him. 

"Why is it here?" 

"I do not know," Spock says. "But it's presence coupled with the other items in this room suggests Brian knows more about your origins than I initially suspected. Than either of us suspected." 

"You think Brian did this to me?" 

There is an anger in the air, a feeling like reaching towards some revelation just out of reach. James is not sure where the anger is originating -- it feels like it is coming from him, but that vibrating connection between them, made physical through a hand Spock has placed against the bare skin of James' lower back, means the emotion is just as likely coming from Spock. 

"How could he know?" James knows there is no way Spock would have an answer to this question. "How could he know?" 

And the door opens behind them. They both spin, and there in the doorway is Brian, and he is holding the phaser Spock had placed on the table. Spock has a second of tense reaction, and a second more and James knows Spock would have been across the room and Brian would be on the ground. 

But they do not have a second. Because Brian raises the phaser and shoots them both. 

~0~0~0~

"Hello, hello?" 

It feels like he has been punches in the gut, and it takes James a moment to pull the voice from the pain. It is not his voice. It is not Spock's voice. James' eyes flicker open, and there is a pain also in his shoulder and a pounding in his head. 

"Where's Spock?" 

"They took Commander Spock to the green room," the voice says. 

James tries to see the source of the voice, but it is too bright, the light an unhelpful intrusion rather than illumination. Slowly James becomes aware that he is in a small cell. As his eyes clear of the dancing black spots he looks to the cell across from him and even though there are two sets of bars and a hallway between them, James jerks back. 

"What the hell?" It is one of them, one of the Telerans. He -- James is pretty sure the voice is masculine -- looks sick. His scales are grey and peeling in places, like he's been doused with radiation or something equally terrible, and James' pounding heart calms somewhat. 

"You are Captain James T. Kirk," the Teleran says. 

"Apparently," James says. He wonders what the "T" stands for. 

"I would be honored if you call me Ser'kelik."

"Honored, huh?" James is still not sure if he should be afraid of him, but figures the fact they are both locked up reduces the danger. "How long have you been here?" 

"I have been here for about one Earth year," Ser'kelik says. He starts coughing, and doesn't stop. He reaches for a some breathing device in the corner of his cell, holds it to his nose for a few quick breaths. It seems to sooth him, but it is still a good five minutes before he is able to speak again. 

"Are you here alone?" 

"No, there were three of us." 

"Where are the other ones?"

James runs his hand along the edges of the door. In lots of the old movies they have nicks or loose bars but actually this is not a movie and the bars are firm. He has nothing on his person that would enable him to get past solid metal bars. There is no way to get out of here, he will need a key. Maybe I can pick the lock. What? He doesn't know how to pick locks. Plus there's no good tools around here. 

"He killed them." 

James stills. "What? Who killed them?"

"Mr. Li," Ser'kelick says. "He captured us. It is his right to treat us as prisoners. We surrendered. Though what he does here . . ." 

"Go on," James has stilled and is now gripping the bars tightly. Mr. Li. Brian Li. Brian. Brian had shot them, this was all behind Brian's office. What was Brian doing locking up aliens? What would Brian be doing even knowing about aliens? 

"You two making friends?" It is Brian's voice. He looks tall and sharp, in one of his grey tailored work suits and hair carefully coifed. He kneels down before the bars, so he is speaking with James at the same level. Though of course they are not really at the same level, they never are, and now there are bars between them. "Did you know rescuer was an alien, James? Were you going to tell me?"

"I didn't know, until today."

Over Brian's shoulder, James sees Ser'kelik scoot back against the far wall of his cell. James needs to get out of here. He is going to need to talk Brian into letting him out of here. He doesn't know if it is even possible. 

"Why did you bring him here, James?" Brian asks, and his voice ripples with that impatience that promises pain or punishment if there was not quick compliance. Even now, James has an instinct to give Brian what he wants. James had always complied, but that was because Brian had never requested anything that seemed to cross any boundaries. But also it's becoming increasingly clear that James' boundaries were fucked up. 

"I wanted to show him your company," James says carefully. "I wanted you two to talk. I thought you would be interested in all the technology he has." 

"I am interested." Brian says. James wants to ask where Spock is now, but is sure Brian will be able to hear the worry in his voice. "But not just in the technology. You know as an alien he is interesting as well as a physical specimen?" 

Differ from humans in 53.4 percent of our composition. 

James licks his lips. His heart is pounding and there is an intense anger that is actually spreading an icy coldness from his head to his heart. "What are you doing to him?"

"Come James. Surly you can imagine. You must know I don't enjoy any of this, but it has certainly been a boon to us. To our species, even."

"Don't enjoy any of what?" James says quietly, already knowing the answer. "What are you doing, Brian?" 

"I understand in the future we will be forced to interact with these creatures," Brian looks at Ser'kelik, who presses even further back against the wall. "I will grant your friend is less physically repulsive that this one, but that just makes him more dangerous. We must prepare ourselves for when they come, which I understand may be in my lifetime, if I am lucky enough to live past eighty." 

"You are doing all this because you are afraid of aliens?

"Not afraid. You know I like to be prepared. It would be irresponsible not to use all the tools we are given to prepare, however unorthodox the source. Like yourself. Tell me. What year were you born?" 

"I don't know what you are talking about," James says softly.

Brian smiles his predatory smile, leans towards the bars. "You are lying, James. But not to worry. We will get the information from you soon enough. You," Brian turns to Ser'kelick, who had started coughing. Brian points to James in the cell. "What is this man's name?"

If James thought Ser'kelick might show some resistance to answering Brian's questions, due to solidarity or stubbornness or obvious terror, he was mistaken. 

"Captain James T. Kirk," Ser'kelick says, almost like he's proud of it. 

"And what year was he born?"

"Captain Kirk was born in 2233." Three years younger than Spock, James thinks, in a fit of irrational math.

"There, you see?" Brian turns back to James. "Just be cooperative, and maybe you can do as well as your new friend here." 

Brian stands up, and he is going to head back down the hall. Leave James here. And if that is all James can expect, he has little left to lose. "What did you do to me? What did you do to my memory?"

Brian pauses. For a moment James thinks he is going to continue down the hall, but then his shoulders square, and he turns. "I didn't do anything to your memory, James. I helped you. You remember that I helped you."  
James might at one point have been grateful, but that is not what he is feeling right now. That earlier gratitude had already been eroding under a flow of suspicions. The room with Kirk's belongings, getting shot by a phaser, and aliens in cages have just about completed the job. 

"What are you going to do to Spock? What is the green room?" James says. 

"Ask your friend." 

Brian leaves and James doesn't need to ask. He knows Spock is in danger. They are probably going to cut him to pieces if James does not do something right now. 

Kirk could do something, came the unhelpful and completely demoralizing thought. Kirk would have a plan, Kirk would have people, he would get in there and save the day and nothing would happen to Spock because they were t'hy'la, Kirk and Spock, not Spock and James. 

But Kirk had gotten himself stuck in this fucking terrible situation, and now Kirk was James and James was going to figure out what to do. But what can he do? 

"Captain Kirk," Ser'kelik says. "I can help you get to Commander Spock." 

This source of aid is unexpected. "Why would you help us?"

"Though circumstances have conspired to place us on opposite sides, you deserve respect. Even on Terelia, your accomplishments are well known. It is known how you brokered peace between Terelia and New Vulcan, and have saved Earth from destruction on three separate occasions." 

What? James is going to have to file that bit of information away for examination later. 

"Why didn't you use this yourself?"

"Where would I go?" Ser'kelik says. 

The key slides across the hallway and there's a moment where James fears it will bounce off the bars and lay marooned in the hallway. But the key reaches him. The metal is warm against his fingers, wherever Ser'kelik was keeping it also keeping it very hot.

Ser'kelik smiles weakly when James is out and hands back the key. He really does look terrible, grey, and scales peeling and James is not expert but that cannot be a healthy Teleran complexion. 

"I will come back for you," James finds himself saying. 

"No you won't. But that is alright. Now, go."

James nods and heads down the hall. 

It is not such a large space, but it is twisty, the hallways thin. Each turn is nerve-racking, lest James run into a guard or Brian himself. James carefully looks inside doors as he passes. They all have those thin glass windows eye level -- the kinds James always expects to have some face pressed against them. He is most nervous passing the room where they had been shot, but it is deserted now. Inside he sees a phaser, on the display shelf, and he ducks in to grab it. He does not see the time travel device. This could be a problem. But first, he must find Spock. 

The phaser feels odd and clumsy in his hand but he grips it tightly anyway. He looks again at the gold shirt, ripped and bloodied. The side door by the case also has an eye-level window. A flash of color passes by the glass and James dodges, moving out of line of sight, then slowly approaches the window. A quick glance shows Brian, and Spock -- strapped to a table, and three heavies in white Cryteltech uniforms standing near the door to the hallway. 

James swallows. He cannot fight three thugs, plus Brian. A plan. He needs a plan. 

James slides down against the wall and tries to think. He obviously has to do something. He wonders if he just goes in maybe Kirk could just take over. He thinks Kirk would have no trouble taking out four men. Especially if it would mean saving Spock -- he has enough of Kirk's memory-impressions to feel pretty certain of that. But he's also pretty sure putting himself in danger not a valid Kirk activation method. After all, being Kirk hadn't helped him when he was kidnapped and tormented by ponytail and his pals. 

But he has to do something. And he and Spock had been so close. James just needs that damn door to open, he is sure. It was only hours ago they had lain together in that motel bed. Closing his eyes James can almost feel it, the slide of stiff sheets and the too-hot press of Vulcan skin. Spock had gone into James' fractured mind, shielded him while James pounded on that door. James needs to open that door. It is the best shot.

James places the phaser on the floor beside him. He leans back, the wall cool against his shoulder blades. He has never sought out the room on his own, has always been running. But he thinks he can do it. The demons are always there, waiting for him. 

In the end, it is surprisingly easy.


	7. Part 2 - Bleeding Out, Last Thing

# Another Place and Time

## Part 2 - Bleeding Out

### Last Thing

It is dark, but the black is a grey that might be called twilight and the demons are more distant. He is standing in a blast radius Spock had made, at the door. He reaches for the door, prepared for the unyielding surface. But before he reaches for the knob he stills, then curls his fingers and raps lightly against the wood. 

And waits. One, two, three heartbeats he waits in the semi-darkness. Around him the demons are stirring, pushing. He has time. But it is not endless. James does not look back, not at the steps, not at the scratch marks in the wood. Instead he listens. The final heartbeat ends and nothing. No sounds, so stirring beyond the demon rasps behind him. Nothing happens so he is reaching for the knob . . . 

And then, against all odds and reason, the door opens, and there should be musty smells or puffs of dust or shattering walls but there is nothing like that. 

Instead, James is looking at himself. Like a hologram. Like the hologram. But, real? Toned muscles, perfect hair, the sharp expression and somehow too-blue eyes and James suspects Kirk is better even at those. Kirk is wearing a golden shirt like the one in the case, unbloodied, and it looks too new. Too fresh, like it was just dry cleaned that morning. 

"Come in," Kirk says. "And close the door." 

James steps into the room beyond, as smoothly as falling asleep. Inside the walls are wood and bright with light, bathed in gold from a late afternoon sun. Kirk sits down in front of a window, looking out on green fields. Corn. It must be corn. This is Iowa. 

"Captain Kirk?"

"He was," Kirk says out the window. 

Kirk does not turn, even as the door clicks shut and James steps further into the room. James sits, because there is a chair beside Kirk. He does not know if the chair was there when he entered the room, but it does not matter. They are sitting close, so close the knee of James' jeans almost touches the black of Kirk's slacks. 

"Your father?" James says. 

"Not just my father," Kirk shifts, and of course neither of them say "our father." Because none of this is "our," it is all him, all Kirk. It is at once correct and painful. "You must know about the other one."

"I--" 

James is on the cusp of denying it and instead asking his own questions, because this is already confusing enough without talking in riddles. But he stops. Because he does know. It is a riddle, but James knows the answer, and he understands. In a way he would not have expected to, he understands. 

James had thought his memory flashes belonged to this Kirk, the one he was, the one locked in his head. But he knows now there are two streams. There is what happened to him, and what happened to . . . another. There are double suns and purple planets in both, but the images in one are duller -- projections, not memories. And those projections are full of comparisons and expectations. And usually it is fine, it is exciting and motivating and strengthening, but just sometimes it is so heavy Kirk feels encased in led, a statue already cast. Frozen. 

So instead of the denial, James says. "I know." 

Kirk smiles. It's a soft uptake of the side of his mouth. The expression both is and is not an expression James might make -- it is a style of smile he never cultivated. In profile lit by the golden light of the sun, Kirk is beautiful, and it's weird because the face is James' face so there is an odd sort of narcissism in this thought, and 'this must be how Spock feels' floats across James' mind, out of place but also securely at home. 

"He isn't in here. He's out there." Kirk says. 

James is not sure if he is talking about the other one -- the other them -- or Spock. Everything is mixing here. Their hands resting on their respective knees are close. They could link fingers. James does not know what happens if he touches Kirk, but knows he is not ready for it quite yet. Not quite yet. 

"But you want to find him again," James says. 

Kirk doesn't say anything. Somewhere outside a car rumbles past and James realizes there is activity outside, the motion unexpected. There are figures in the corn. A woman, and a young boy play in the foreground. Smiling, Shining, Happy. And to the side, at the very edge of their vision, two old men. They are distant, so distant, and James can tell one is tall and one is wide and they are walking closely and they belong together. The two men are walking through knee-high corn, heading towards a distant tree. James watches them too, how they walk closely but never quite touch, how the green swirls around their knees, brushes their hands and clings to their clothes. 

"They never make it," Kirk says, and James feels a sadness he cannot name. "They always separate, before arriving at the tree. They never make it. In the end they are each alone." 

Kirk raises the hand from his knees, flexing familiar fingers. It has the same nicks and dips as James' hand, because of course it was his hand. This was his head. But really, it was Kirk's, and once this man left this room James would be, what, just another part of him? 

"You found me," Kirk says, and he is speaking to James thought watching the men outside. 

James swallows. It's funny, how he can feel the contractions in his throat, even here. "You knew I was there?"

" I knew you were there. I heard you knocking, and I could feel myself coming back together. I think things have been hard for you, and I am sorry." 

James is interested in everything in this room, but he came here for this. For Kirk. Kirk can fix this. He can fix everything, or so say the memory projections James has in his head -- the impossible feats, the obstacles overcome. James has never done anything braver than, well, diving into his own demon-infested mind. Or bringing Spock here to Cryteltech. 

"Will you come with me?" James says. And when Kirk does not answer, "You are not alone. Spock is here. He's in trouble." 

It's like the entire room shifts around them. Kirk turns to him and his eyes are alive, the blue lit and James feels something like maybe his heart is clawing up into his throat. "Spock is here?" and then "Spock helped you. That's why you, that's why I was able too -- " 

Kirk takes a breath and abruptly stands from his chair. He takes two turns about the room, and there is a bed, a table, a bookshelf with odd items that are at once old and futuristic, then turns to James. 

"How do we do it?" Kirk says. "How do we get out of here?" 

"I think it will be easy," James stands, walks now to where Kirk is standing against the far wall. Outside the figures still move, the old men in the distance continue their walk, but Kirk is looking at James now. James reaches out a hand and Kirk nods, raising his own. Before they touch James pauses, and Kirk looks at him expectantly. "Will you tell me something? What does the 'T' stand for?" 

And Kirk laughs as their fingers touch and James is swallowed by a bright sun beam that binds and burns. 

~0~0~0~

24 hours. He has 24 hours to get back to the future, back to the ship, back to Spock. Piece of cake. Kirk runs through the streets of historic San Francisco, and he can easily deal with the Telerans on his path. No problem. 

But. 

He hadn't counted on the Teleran's capturing a pack of civilians. Holding them hostage. And sure maybe a part of Kirk says fuck it, he only has 24 hours and there is no time for this, but the major part, the heroic part, goes to save them. He gets all of them out and it's just at he's hitting the coordinates on the time travel device and he will be back in ten, nine, eight, seven, six --

Then there's a blast, and pain, and blood on his shoulder and fuck those old weapons sting. He touches his shoulder and comes away with blood, and there is a man standing over him with the gun, a handsome man, one of the hostages, Kirk thinks, and what is he doing . . . 

Five, four -- Kirk reaches for the time travel device, because now he has to get back because though he had been excited to see Spock before now he really has need of McCoy. The device is blinking and whirring and he just needs to lock his fingers over the top, touch that blue stone and he will be home. 

But the guy over him, that one with the gun, kicks it away, and the time runs out. 

Kirk has a moment to wonder what happens if he does not get the Tor back within 24 hours, before his mind goes blank. 

~0~0~0~

And Kirk is standing with what feels like rivulets of liquid metal slowly sliding down his face. He puts a hand up, brings it down coated with silver. The stuff is seeping out of his pores and it is disturbing and creepy. All of this was in his skin, lodged somewhere in his head. Then it is a ball hardening in his hand, and his head is clear and his mind is sharp and he knows where he is. 

And he is fucking pissed. 

Kirk is on his feet. He grabs the phaser and it feels strange but that's probably because he has been in some semi-comatose state for two years and he has never been this angry. Kirk pushes open the door -- unlocked, because why would Brian bother to lock anything back here -- arms the phaser, steps into the room and points it at Brian in one fluid movement. 

"Don't think I won't kill you if you touch him," Kirk says.

"Restrain him," Brian says, not looking up, and the thugs come forward and Kirk presses the button. 

And nothing happens. 

He curses and throws the phaser aside. The thug roughly in its path ducks and Brian says, "I disarmed that one months ago. Nice try though, James."

There are three men coming at him now, and Kirk does some quick calculations. He takes the first one out with a tray on the table, uses him as a shield against a second, who falls forward after a one two punch, and the third is out with a none too pleasant move he picked up from a (relatively) friendly Klingon mercenary once on Trion VI. Kirk quickly disarms the fallen men and he's now got three weapons to choose from, rough, stinging, old-Earth weapons. 

Now Brian is looking at him. 

Kirk raises one of his three new weapons. "Care to try this again?" 

Brian slowly raises his hands. "How'd you do it?"

"You said I should take self defense." 

"You're him," Brian says. 

"If you know who I am, you know you can't fight me," Kirk takes a step into the room, and another. With the gun he gestures towards a chair. "Why don't you sit down?" 

Brian sits, and Kirk keeps the gun on Brian as he releases Spock, unclipping the straps around his wrists and ankles and helping him stand. Spock is groggy with whatever they have given him, but Kirk is confident the Vulcan's physiology will soon overcome whatever weak narcotics were introduced into his system. 

"Thank you for coming for me, Commander," Kirk says. 

Spock's eyes go wide, then dark, and he is smiling, actually smiling. The bond between them -- God, the glorious, humming bond -- is like a fire after being lost for days in the snow. 

"Thank you for coming for me, Captain," Spock says. Kirk's skin is trying to crawl off his body and snuggle with Spock, and their hands curl together on the table, Spock's grip in danger of breaking bone. Kirk lets that moment stretch before he takes some of the restraints from the table and uses them fasten Brian's hands in front of him. Spock is doing something with another chair in one corner. 

"You want to get back, don't you? You won't be able to do it without my help. You will have to find your -- "

Spock has already done it, pulling the time travel device from where it is hidden behind one of the air vents. The stones glows blue and Kirk imagines there is smugness in the glow, directed at Brian. He is probably just projecting. But in any case Brian blanches. 

"That's it then. Are you going to kill me?" Kirk pulls the restraints snug. He hopes it cuts off some blood circulation. 

Kirk wants to. The bastard shot him, and left him to wander, like that, through the streets, and then he . . . Kirk steps closer to Brian, and his eyes are burning and maybe he should stop himself but fuck it he pulls his hand back and lets the punch fly, right across the jaw, and the motion is painful and hugely satisfying. 

Brian is not used to being punched. He crumples inward, then looks at up, lip bloody, and Kirk punches him again, and again, three times and then Spock is behind him, restraining his arm and speaking close to his ear, and Spock as always is a soothing presence but this anger is different, deeper, and more personal. Spock might not be able to sooth this anger, but he had some logic on his side. 

"Jim, there is not time." 

Spock's voice is low, spoken into his neck and Kirk is aware that they had sex a few hours ago, Spock and this body -- his body, though he was not fully present -- and the bruises in his hips and the tingling ache inside him are a reminder. He wants it now, badly and inappropriately, and it's not unlike those first couple months where they had fucked at every opportunity, in every non-wildly inappropriate place available (and a few wildly inappropriate places, there was that time with the Captain's chair) until Kirk had pulled Spock from his neck and demanded to know when thing would cool down and Spock had said when the bond is satisfied. 

Their bond is fucking starving. 

"Saved by an alien, how do you like that, Brian?" Kirk says, and his voice is sex-rough. He knows Spock hears it, can feel the answering waves of desire though Spock is hiding them admirably, only a slight green flush giving him away. Kirk wants to tease him but now is absolutely not the time. 

Brian is watching them through a puffy eye, and the questions are curiosity is there, and Kirk takes pleasure knowing he is never, ever going to be offering any explanation to Brian about Spock, or any other subject he knows Brian would be desperate to know.

"It's worse than when you were a whore," Brian says, and Kirk's eyes go wide. Only Spock's hand on his arm prevents him from punching Brian again, this time aiming to loosen a few teeth.

Kirk hauls Brian to his feet and pushes him through the side door, and then down into a chair. He ties the restraints to the chair, making sure the knots and buckles are extra tight. Then Kirk leans back, arms folded, to glare at him while Spock lines up the two time traveling devices and gets to work. Kirk now recognizes his shirt hanging in the case -- a piece of his laundry turned into some creepy museum piece -- and he remembers exactly how that blood got on his shoulder. 

"What the hell is wrong with you? I saved your life and you shot me in the shoulder. Stole my stuff and left me in the street."

Spock glances up. He doesn't say anything, but Kirk knows he is listening. He knows Spock is angry too, can fell it through the bond, but Spock is focusing on the task of fixing the device, which is good because it leaves Kirk free to get some answers. 

"Well? Talk to me."

Brian is looking not at Kirk but at the floor at Kirk's feet, and Kirk is all too aware that Brian gave him these fucking shoes. Gave him everything he is wearing, like he was some magnanimous soul when really it had been Brian who had taken everything in the first place. Kirk can feel the Tor thrumming against his skin, and he hates the thing, wants it away from him, but though the Tor had blocked his memories and left him like that, it was Brian that had made it all possible. 

"I didn't expect you to crumble so much. I tried to help you," Brian says at last, and his voice is muffled through his puffy lip.

"You tried to--" Kirk's so angry he can barely think, and there is no way he is scrounging up the slightest sliver of a benefit of the doubt for this man. "I'll tell you what happened to me. It was this," Kirk steps forward and holds the Tor in front of Brian's eye. "This thing was in my head. It looks solid now, but it gets liquidity when it touches skin. And you know what it does?"

Brian shakes his head. 

"Think of everything you are proud of. Everything you use to define yourself, your value, your identity. It blocks that from you. You have to start from scratch." Kirk remembers the words of the Teleran oracle, the warning as she placed the demon stone in his palm. 24 hours, Captain Kirk. You have 24 hours to get this to the host before it takes a host for itself. Don't let it fall into the wrong hands. He doesn't know what makes the thing a weapon, except that it probably drives enemy leaders insane or something. He supposes that would be a pretty effective weapon. "I should give this too you. See if you survive it. You saw how it fucked me up."

Brian is looking at him wide eyed and there is real fear there. Kirk likes it, but hates that he does. Kirk holds his position for a moment. It would be a simple thing, to touch the Tor to Brian's skin, see it seep into his pores. The Tor, the hateful thing, seems even humming for it, craning to touch skin. But Kirk balls it in his fist and takes a step back. 

"But I won't, because unlike you, I am not a sadistic bastard. Mr. Spock," he turns to Spock, who is focused on the time travel device. "When can we go home?"

"I shall have the repairs completed in 21.43 minutes," Spock says tightly. 

Spock had been listening, and Kirk can feel the concern through the resurrected bond between them, tries to send back reassurance. He is not sure he succeeds. It hits him again -- their bond back and Kirk still wants to curl up with it, wrap it around himself and sink down -- but there will be time for that later. 

Kirk goes to the case holding his old belongings and breaks the glass using one of the guns. The shards shatter and he doesn't even blink, just reaches forward to claim his possessions. He takes the golden shirt, torn, but whatever, and pulls it on. The jeans are uncomfortable and inhibit his movement, but there are no pants in the case so he will have to wait until they get home. He changes shoes. 

And that's when, for the second time that day, the space around him explodes. 

Kirk sees Spock scoop up the devices and slip through the side door before the Telerans break into the space. Kirk curses -- everything, the cruddy messed up phaser, the timing, the fact he has to drag Brian back and down to keep him from being shot -- conspiring to piss him off. He knows being this angry in combat it not an asset, and he endeavors to calm down, but he is feeling a rage that has not come to him since his pre-Starfleet times. 

He pushes a table over and slides behind it, pulling Brian with him. From the other room Spock is sending him calm down, we need to focus vibes, but more it's the very fact the bond is there now, pulsing strong and golden between them, that calms him down. He knows Spock will continue his work on the device. Spock still needs fifteen minutes. Kirk will get Spock his fifteen minutes, and then Kirk will get through that door, back to Spock, back to the Enterprise, back home. 

The Telerans speak. 

"Where is the Tor, Captain Kirk?"

"Why would you want that thing?" Kirk calls back. Talking. The classic stalling technique. He can feel Spock's careful focus through the bond and he get Spock enough time to finish, and not distract him with any overly emotional thoughts. "Have a thing for getting your mind scrambled?" 

"It is the test of leadership of our people. It rightly belongs to my mate."

"He couldn't handle it." Kirk is only half thinking what he is saying. 

Kirk looks at the broken phaser, a couple of hypos, and the three old style guns that he has, mind whirring. He picks up the items and begins examining them. He is appreciating regaining access to all his considerable intelligence. Two fucking years. Briefly he wants to go back to punching Brian again. But, there are more important things to think about now. 

"Then we shall kill him and choose someone more worthy," the Teleran says. Kirk's hands falter. He had known Teleran's were ruthless but that was a bit much. "The Tor can be survived by only the strongest of our people. Those with the ability to bear it's effects are those whose composition makes them most worthy of being leaders among us."

"You want insane leaders, is that it? Explains a lot," Kirk says. He cuts his hand on a shard of glass that had lodged in one of the guns and winces -- the gun is now slippery with blood. 

"It is after they have passed through the challenges of the Tor that we know they are worthy," the Teleran replies. 

"Yeah, alright . . ."

"And they will attain the state that elevates them to the status of a god on our home world."

Kirk pauses with a hypo in his hand. "Oh."

Brian is looking at him now like he's somehow in on a secret, and Kirk wants to kick him in the face. But Brian is not his problem right now. Is not even worthy of his focus. Kirk calls to the Telerans behind the table. 

"Hey, if you don't mind my asking, what does this godlike status entail?"

"Those that have completed the Tor are able to manipulate the composition of our home world. They can destroy mountains, make oceans, raise up cities and bring cities to the ground."

That sounds, kind of awesome, actually. Kirk takes a moment to run through his mental processes -- his mind is clear and the bond is back, thank god, but he cannot detect in himself any potential to destroy mountains or make oceans. He feels the cut on his finger, some bruises, the smell of hotel soap and the slight ache from the earlier sex romp with Spock, which he now does credit with shaking most of his memories free. But nothing godlike -- anymore that was already normal for James T. Kirk -- and now was not the time to experiment. 

"We have ways of encouraging your cooperation, Captain Kirk," the Teleran says. There are a few minutes of silence that Kirk gratefully uses to complete a tricky bit of mental calculation, and then there's scuffling as someone is brought into the room. 

"James, what is going on?"

He knows that voice. Cursing, Kirk looks from behind the table. Trevor is being held by one of the Telerans, his colorful hair askew and some ugly weapon pressed against his side. He is wide-eyed and scared and James remembers the last time he faced the Telerans and they had grabbed all those civilians. That had not ended well. The Teleran 

But this would be different. Spock is here, in the other room, and in about ten minutes he would have the means for them to get out of here. No one is going to shoot him in the shoulder. No one is going to . . . Kirk takes a deep breath, stilling the anger and looking for that centered focus he knows he will need to get through this. 

"Don't worry Trev," Kirk calls. "I've got this." 

"You say that but actually you are hiding behind a table right now--"

"Give me a minute."

The calculations complete, Kirk has his plan now. He starts pulling some of the weapons apart. He had taken an old weapons class once, on a lark, and he knows how these things are put together. He doesn't know the designs of these guns specifically, but they are fairly intuitive. 

"What are you doing?" Brian hisses. 

"You, shut up," Kirk says, and if he had a gag he would use it.

"Those are our only weapons--"

"They can't shoot through the Teleran scales," Kirk snaps. "And I told you to shut up." 

Brian goes silent, though he watches as Kirk makes quick work of dismantling the weapons. He has all the pieces he needs now. And he's pretty sure, like, 83.7 percent sure this is going to work. He doesn't owe Brian any explanations. He begins assembling. 

"James Kirk," the Teleran says. "We do not want to hurt you, or your friends. Your bravery, strength and skills are well known. Your deeds and actions are worthy of great respect. No one will blame you now for handing over what is ours, and we shall allow you to return home, as leaders such as yourself are assets to the galaxy, not to be wasted."

"You know I cannot do that." 

"Why do you risk yourself like this? This is a civil war. That the oracles enlisted Starfleet into their struggle with us, even requiring the participation of such an eminent personage as yourself, shows the manipulative nature of their tactics." 

"The way I heard it, you abandoned half the planet and were holding trials to see who of the rest would be allowed to survive."

"Teleria has limited resources. Surly a man such as yourself, a Captain of your caliber, understands the need for decisive leadership and occasionally unpopular acts. Sometimes it is necessary to make difficult decisions."

"Your people did not want to be victims of your difficult decisions," Kirk calls back. "You do not have the right to decide who gets to survive and I don't want to be part of your little club of awesome people." 

There were three Telerans in the room, though the female was doing most of the talking. This would have to work on all of them. He takes the old phaser, pulling it apart and grabbing out some of the chambers. Those, together with the items he pulled from the guns, should do the trick. 

He thinks it has been about ten minutes. Spock still needs five more. 

"You know they are holding one of your people down the hall?" Kirk calls. "Goes by the name of Ser'kelick. Talked to me a bit, seemed like a decent guy. Don't suppose you know him?"

"Ser'kelick was killed."

"No, actually, he is down the hall. You should go to him, his scales are looking pretty grey." 

"It does not matter. I am saddened it has come to this, James Kirk of Earth. But we will get what we need now." 

And he is done. The device he had created looks a bit crude, but it would work. Probably. 

I am coming to you, Spock, he thinks, and he hasn't quite mastered communicating actual words though their bond but he thinks his meaning gets across because he feels the hum of acknowledgement in return. He pushes the button on the removed phaser chamber and there's just enough power to trigger the device, and he throws it from the table just as it erupts in pillars of white smoke. 

The Telerans have need of much more air -- the air on Earth was already too thin for them, and they drop to their knees, then fall to their sides. The air is thick with the smoke, and Kirk's own eyes are watching, throat scratchy, and he's pretty sure these gases are toxic but he's glad of it because it will keep the Teleran's out for longer. 

He goes first to the fallen female, pulling Trevor to his feet, who had been pulled down when she fell. "Trev, go. They'll be out for at least three minutes. Go."

"James, what she said, all that stuff, what the hell?" 

Kirk is still in possession of a blurry memory of his first days at the coffee shop, how kind Trevor had been to him, accepting, friendly. How they had gone to Great American -- you've never ridden a roller coaster? Taken a trip to build a bear where Trevor had insisted on implanting his bear with the soundtrack from Psycho. It all seems so simple and basic now but that appreciation is still warm in him. Kirk softens his voice. 

"Yes I am a starship captain from the future. My memories were temporarily messed up but I am better now. Don't tell anyone," Kirk says, and Trevor's eyes go even wider. "Now go."

"Can I tell Mia?"

"Go. And close the door behind you."

Trevor scrambles to his feet and runs out of the room. Kirk stays just long enough to see Trevor disappear, and then he's crossing the room through the still-thick smoke towards the side door, towards Spock, towards home. His heart is hammering. 

Spock looks up, just briefly, when Kirk enters. 

"Fifty-three seconds," he says, and Kirk begins to move to his side, but is stopped by a grip on his sleeve. Looking back James is reminded he is a man who is in control of his violent impulses as the need to punch once again curled upward from his stomach. Brian has gotten himself untied and followed Kirk. 

"Get off of me," Kirk says tightly. 

Kirk pulls away. Brian's hands are still tied in front of him, it was just the knots tying him to the chair that have come loose. Whatever. Kirk only has thirty more seconds in this shitty time period. Kirk walks to Spock, placing a hand on his Vulcan's shoulder. Even through the black suit, he can feel the warmth of Spock's skin, the anchoring, soothing solidity of it. 

"You can't leave me here, with those things. I can't fight them, when they find out you have gone -- " Brian says. Kirk still has one of the guns in his hands, and he aims it lazily, holds for five seconds, before spinning it down and placing it back on the table. 

"Look on the bright side, Brian. At least I am not shooting you in the shoulder."

Time's up. Spock looks at him, presses the buttons, and the world is a swirl of blue light. It is like a transporter set to slow motion, and sensation less like tingling and more like needles. But it will be move soon. The last thing Kirk sees of 21st century San Francisco is Brian's face bloodied face, as the Teleran's appeared in the door behind.


End file.
